2008 - Pumpkin Island

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The Bones of the Day

A collaborative work by participants in the RCotA Central Queensland Writers Masterclass, June 2008.

The beach is littered with debris - broken shells, the twisted shards of long-extinguished life; fractured twists of skeletal coral; a piece of glass, its danger erased by time; gelatinous globes of green putty.
The sand is scarred with tyre-tracks, sand-shoe treads, the imprint of bare feet running. Crazed gulls have left dance instructions behind, the side-steps and pivots clearly defined, the moves connected by the tail's dragging line. A small dog's paw-prints comingle with the gulls' dance - amateur footwork in comparison.
This story has been written over and scratched out many times. The bones of the day will surrender themselves to the diligent searcher.
In areas, the beach is pock-marked, where tiny moon-craters collapse into themselves. As I watch, new holes appear, teasing the corner of my vision. My heavy steps disrupt the fragility of the sun-touched surface. Even where the gulls have stepped, the sand blisters and dissolves.
The rocks give ground as well. The water rubs like a cat's tongue against them, the gentlest and most determined of caresses. She-oaks have braved the shore, insinuating themselves precariously in any crevice they can find, surviving cannibalistically on their own decaying needles.
My stone is one of the stories the beach would tell - a tumbled flat circle, comfortable in the palm of my hand, filigree-smooth and church-textured. It holds between my hands like a prayer. I trace forever circles on its face.
I left it with the larger rocks that had moulded it, but it called me back; now it sits, claiming me, cool against my cheek as I prop my chin on my hand to write. It reminds me that I too am ground each day by the marks left on me, the craters and dance-tracks, the debris and surrenders that interpret my life.

***

She might be come upon at the bottom of the hill, sheltering beside some rocks set against the aquamarine sea. 

Considered thus, I wonder what kind of lady is this oak tree. Perhaps a carefree dancer, jigging to the oceanic symphony and the sonorous roar of percussion far above? She is naturally attuned to elemental forces at play, green spindle dress draped casually over sun-dappled limbs, chatting freely among friends. Or maybe she's the sturdy guardian, stoic in the face of seasonal shifts and fancies, standing among a company of others in wise counsel, checking over those beginning to bud.

And yet it seems to me that she is a dreamer, rolling among seagulls' flights of fancies and the water's meandering ways, reaching out into the billowing sky. She lays out a world of her own making. On the carpet of lawn before her, sprites cavort in aerobatics, borne on frenzied zephyrs of breeze. On the abutting rocks, sea-nymphs lie in rest, etched in crevices and cracks creased in limestone. By night, starlight illuminates the way across the dreamscape and pilot guides from distant lands find their way home, to here. And carousers rouse themselves from slumber beneath the enveloping shelter of the spectral casuarina.

But this might all be a passing conceit, and she not a she but a tree.

***

I pick up a fruity scent, and scan for the source. 

A pandanus straddles the peninsula where a scattering of bloated ochre acorns lie beneath. I am irresistibly drawn to pick one up. I rotate the nugget. The waxy skin feels smooth, and tapers to an arid summit where bronzed crags remind me of lotus flower root. Scratching the silky surface releases a pungent banana pawpaw-ish essence and the deeper flesh is stringy like uncooked ginger.

Should I taste it?

I notice a whole unripened fruit nestled in its sheath of long spiked leaves. It's about the size and shape of a pineapple, and resembles a short obese Monstera deliciosa, or Fruit Salad Plant I once had. I know you can eat them.

Should I taste it?

I choose another acorn of softer flesh and gouge my thumbnail down into its hard stony core. Withdrawing, pulp clings to my thumbnail much like an artichoke gives up its precious cargo of gastronomic gold.

Should I taste it? I will!

***

Many rocks are striated and serrated, pockmarked, coloured in such a way as to leave one wondering whether Erich Von Daniken should be taken more seriously. Some resemble old, wilted sponges, rotted from overuse; or dishwashing-water-aged pumice stone. 

Sloping wavy striations have formed over long, wide expanses. Petrified wood, a miniature Grand Canyon, provides a surprise. The outside layers have worn away on some, exposing a marbled slice forming teeth like those on a timber saw. Another section is like decayed house plaster, while yet another pile is cement-like in texture. Is this the mortar that the First Fleeters used to build their houses?

Seeds from emerging mangrove trees provide the necklaces for some rocks. Their colours vary, ranging from greys, blues, reds, white and browns. What minerals provided these hues? They are unexpected in this environment. Do the coloured rocks smash to powder, providing the colour to the developing rocks? Perhaps. Holes resembling dog prints have formed, leading to the conclusion that extra-terrestrials bring their pets.

***

The ocean around Pumpkin Island is a foreign geography that I am ill-equipped to explore. At low tide the liminal area separating land and sea activities has become all oystered rock, coral shards, and shallow reef that could shipwreck a misplaced foot.

I approach the water's threshold with gear better suited to laps of a placid suburban pool. Not sturdy footwear with a reinforced sole. Not neck-to-knee coverage of sensitive flesh. Wading on wincing feet, I peer into the shallows, stepping with caution to avoid the dark patches where sharp things might lurk. The layer of water is too thin for swimming. I stop, sit down briefly to cool heat-hazed skin, then pick my way back to land. 

At high tide the following day I return, clad like a hermit crab in a casing of borrowed wetsuit, mask, snorkel and flippers. It is four p.m. and the sun is striking the sea obliquely; the all-day wind has shaken and stirred the water to a sandy cocktail. Visibility is poor, only a few metres. Stingrays with piercing barbs and sharks prowling for an evening meal are not entirely absent from my thoughts as I swim out fifty metres, and across, until I am parallel to the rocks at the far end of the beach.

Suspended face down, I float above another world, gawping like a tourist. The elaborate coral-scapes - intricately whorled domes, large saucer-shaped plates, branches white-tipped and star-crusted - are muted in colour, but enlivened by darting blue-bodied, yellow-headed fish. Something brown and spiny, and something black and cylindrical, nestle in the sand. Fortunately, none of the large and scary types of locals loom into my field of vision, but neither does the sea turtle I had hoped to encounter.

I head back to the beach and am about to make the transition from horizontal to vertical when a shoal of baby fish, finger-length and almost translucent, flash in front of my face. I linger to watch them until a breaking wave fills my snorkel and I sputter to my feet and become a land creature again.

***

Sweet island paradise
Vainly seeking what to find
Hillsides scanty, clouding vision
Playing tricks on open mind

Creatures maybe - are they hiding?
Beneath cliffs where shadows lie
Trees a-bowing, sweeping gently
Wider still to cast the eye

Boats are bobbing, looking normal
Seabirds stiff on zephyr mild
Silence heartbeat, hear the music
Call so clearly from the wild

Wandering loosely, still not found it
Raise the head: the source is near
Haunting call with timbre sounding
Plays a love song to the ear

Frantic, searching, do not leave me
Long to hear seductive cry
Sky trails pointing, urging, helping
Restless breezes seem to sigh

Can it be the nearby mountain
Purple-hued in spectrum light;
Or the beaches, playful, waiting
Exposed to approaching night?

But in the distance, rows of mountains
Sisters hugging in delight
Kissing, dancing, draped in sunbeams
Sighs the heart at such a sight.

For now proudly, curves revealing
Cut from grasp by unknown deep
Silent watcher, time suspended
Needs to worship at their feet.

Fading now, and losing battle;
Sirens' call is growing dim
Kayak dipping, sun is sinking
Hands still waving, beckoning

Heart is pounding, paddles flashing
Louder now sets pulses drumming
Feel the power of untold longing
Wait my sisters, wait - I'm coming.

***

The waves of Pumpkin Island, in which I choose to stand, are among the oldest in the world. They contain the wash of ages, the peace of endless days, they have coaxed the rock and the stubborn land. These waves, they have no master except for wind and tide, yet here I find them falling at my feet.

I want to shout of my great victory, of their dying on the sand, but the censorious Shhhh of wave-death urges silence. It's a librarian rebuke to anyone who dares to break the quiet tumult. I can hear the heedless hardness in their soft-glass sound, in the jaggedness of every sea-born sigh.

There are songs within these waves, ripple-cadence melodies that rise and fall and ebb and cry. They sing in secret choruses, they are here and they are going, oblivious and knowing. And with a wet earth-kiss they wish silence upon us.

The waves of Pumpkin Island are dying at my feet, but their battle song, I know, will outlast me.

***

Walking among the rockpools. The tide is low. It's been a long time since I've explored my favourite place in all the world.

Rocks of many shapes and size are host to purply crustaceans and tidepools, yet there's not a crab or fish in sight. Only a pool of bêche-de-mer black and velvety, faceless, but still beautiful in their simplicity.

The winter sun is a glorious yellow like from long ago. A gentle breeze surrounds me, the tide a soothing lullaby.

When you listen to nature, she'll speak to you. But when you open your spirit, she will sing you a song. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. This is beauty beyond words.

Biographical notes

Janene Carey, a creative writing doctoral student, draws on lived experience to craft true stories. Her publications include academic articles and creative nonfiction pieces.

Geoff Danaher is a semi-retired academic living in Yeppoon with an interest in humorous writing. He has drafted one novel and is preparing a sequel.

Donna Galley lives in Central Queensland and loves the beauty of the region. She writes young adult fiction and studies Literature on campus at CQUniversity.

Kim Greene is a freelance songwriter, and writer of sci-fi/fantasy, fiction, and several nonfiction articles. Originally from California, but now calls Australia home.

A coach and passionate supporter of people reaching their potential, Pamela Harrison has written a revolutionary series of self-coaching books.

Lindsay K Hart is an aeromedical pilot and an emerging writer of creative fiction. He lives in Central Queensland with his wife of 25 years.

Peter Mitchell - songwriter, poet, memoirist - holds a Masters degree in creative writing and is completing a PhD. He married Penny, his childhood sweetheart. They have five cats.

Elizabeth Warren was a nurse, farmer and teacher before settling on journalism. In between she worked in the public service and as a dietician in a wildlife sanctuary.

Editors/facilitators

Donna Lee Brien (CQUniversity)

Jen Webb (University of Canberra)