We’re pleased to announce the winner of the January WWWC: Jillian Smith! In ‘Sapphiretown’, a woman’s bittersweet reunion with the beach shack she holidayed in as a child brings back old memories.
Read Jillian’s winning entry below.
Sapphiretown
At the end of the dirt road, where the inlet rounds into American River, lies a small grid of scraped-out tracks pretending to be a town. There are no sapphires here in Sapphiretown, other than the blue of the water over the sand hills. There’s no town either. Just a sparse collection of intermittent shacks among the acacia and native pines. Just up the beach at Millionaire’s Row are slick holiday houses with panorama windows looking out over Eastern Cove, pimples of suburbia breaking the skin of the wild dunes. But here, in Sapphiretown, the shacks are hidden in the scrub of the sandhills, viewless, unseeing and unseen.
Fourth Street is a track about to give itself back to the bush. Branches of melaleuca scrape on the paintwork of a ute forcing its way to the end.
It parks when it can go no further, in the shade of a grey fibro shack. Next to the shack are rusted water tanks and an open shed housing a red Holden commodore sitting on its wheel rims. A decaying wooden dingy with an acacia growing through its broken boards sits on the sand. Shade cloth hangs unevenly on the shack’s windows, wrapping the little house in strips of black.
Cate knew the old man never really cared about the house. He’d bought it for the wooden ketch moored nearby on American River. The boat and the shack were a package deal. The ketch was a derelict curio abandoned in the inlet, home to a clutch of shags and covered in shit. He had it hauled ashore, cleaned it, worked on it, and loved it. ‘She’s a sleeping beauty,’ he’d say. ‘She’ll wake up a princess.’ Every holiday he’d drag the family to the shack with its long-drop toilet and diesel generator, and he’d work on the boat. It was out of the water for years as he carefully hewed planks to refit the hull, before it spent more years just sitting in the water as he refurbished the interior and the rigging. Her mother had tried to make the shack comfortable. She made curtains, and cushions, and put up blinds for handkerchiefs of shade. She eventually gave up, refusing to return after enduring one summer too many of flies and heat. ‘He loves that boat more than his own children!’ her mother would say after they divorced. It was almost true.
Cate’s key sticks in the lock and she shoulders the door, stumbling into the main room. Of course the place is filthy. It’s been years since anyone was here.
Bundles of cracked sails cover the couch, old newspapers, photo albums and books are stacked against walls. A layer of dust covers every surface and the place smells of mice. She steps over boxes and tangled ropes and bits of outboard motor to get to the kitchen tap. A dirty dribble piddles out. Above the sink is a 1992 American River General Store calendar with a sunset picture of her father’s boat on the water. She mouths the caption without having to read it: Sapphiretown, the Hidden Gem of Kangaroo Island.
It is too hot and sad inside.
Outside gulls call and wheel overhead. She can hear the beach just over the dunes. Where is that path she and her sister made in the summers with Fred? Now the scrub is an impenetrable wall of spikes and scratches. How long since she’d been here? A decade? Of course no-one had maintained the place since Fred had eventually given in and returned to the mainland. She frowns at nature, at her own inaction. ‘Just too busy,’ she says out loud, pulling a face, mimicking her sister. Jeez, as if her little sis would ever raise a hand to help clean up this dump. A hot stone of anger rises in her gut, as her mind flits over the last few years. Sorting out Fred’s affairs: selling the boat, clearing out his retirement flat, the hospital visits, finding a nursing home. And then the hours driving, every weekend, to sit by his bedside to witness his slow decline, every trip a little more gone, a little less him, sinking into the mattress, until he blended with the bedcovers. Her sister saw none of that, turning up just for the funeral and pissing off back to Sydney as soon as she could.
Fuck this.
Cate grabs her towel and water bottle from the ute and walks back down the excuse of a driveway to the main track. A swim is what she needs. The sorting can start tomorrow. Another day won’t hurt.
She picks her way through the saltbush to the beach. The midday light glares, reflected off the limestone rock and white sand. An instinct deeper than thought halts her and she pauses. A black snake slithers onto the path, pausing to turn its head, acknowledging her with a flicker of tongue. She breathes again as it disappears into the undergrowth.
Cate emerges onto the crest of the dune to see the gasp of paradise that is Island Beach. She walks into the water, clear and turquoise. The tide is way out. Three yachts sway on their anchors at the other end of the bay. She squints at a dozen pencil-line figures coming in and out of focus by Millionaire’s Row. The mirage masks their cricket game, but she hears the thwack of the ball on bat and the shouts of howzat. She wades chest deep then duck dives under the water. Her heavy mood dissolves quickly in the cool water and she swims towards the shore, then stands in the shallows. A shadow-making flurry of sand puffs by her feet and a small ray darts away. A memory of the dingy noisily put-putting above dozens of shadows wafting in the water below crosses her eyes. She remembers now that this is a place for rays.
Out of the water, she sits under the shade of a sheoak at the edge of the sand. A large bird, a Pacific gull, she thinks, calmly scrutinises her a few metres away, then takes to the air. With impressive economy of movement – only a few flaps of its long wings – it is over the bay’s blue line. Suddenly it dives and skims the water with its feet. It returns to its spot on the beach and releases a writhing shark hatchling. The gull stares at Cate as if for approval, then snatches the tiny shark in its beak and flies down the beach out of sight.
Drowsiness washes over her. She’d been up before dawn for the ferry. She feels the power of wildness calming her breath, slowing her body.
She stretches on the towel and closes her eyes. The cricket game has stopped and now only the lap and wash of wavelets enter her mind. The breeze plays over the contours of her body.
*
She feels her sister, pinching her. So annoying! Always trying it on. Can’t you just leave me alone? Catie, her father yells, Come on! They jump in the dingy as he pulls the starter. It revs into life and they bounce across the ocean. It’s cool now, the sea has changed from blue to grey. She’s at the front and the wind whips the water into her face. She can’t wait to get to the big boat. They come alongside and he holds the dingy close as she hauls herself up the ladder. Its paintwork glistens green in the sea spray. Daddy, this is my floating cubby house. He’s smiling. She knows she’s her father‘s favourite; she’s the only one interested in the boat. She helps him, holding this, measuring that, playing by his side as he works. Ha ha – Daddy let me name her, not you, little sis. Now Catie’s swaying in the hammock off the boom. She’s climbing the mast, up top in the harness, away from her mother’s eyes. The sails unfurl and flap then fill with wind and Sapphire Lady dances across the bay. Silver grey bodies flash and dive as the bow cuts the water. Daddy, daddy the dolphins are back look they’re swimming upside down Oh look daddy! it’s got a baby! So happy so happy…
*
When she wakes the gull is back, watching over her. She sits up. The tide has turned and the waterline is approaching her spot. It’s time to leave.
Back at Fourth Street, the evening light envelops the shack. As she walks down the long driveway track, remnants of joy linger from her dream daze. Cate tenderly, quietly opens the door. As light fills the room, a breeze lifts dust into the sunbeams. The shade-cloth blinds tap against the windows. She sits and traces her finger on the table, leaving the outline of a boat. She lifts her gaze to the chaos of the room. It’ll be a big job, that’s for sure. She’ll need extra time off. But she might stay a while.
I was inside this story from the first line. The author painted such a clear picture of the place. I could see Cate walking through it. Her voice was strong. The family dynamic was skillfully woven through the story through snatches of memory. The pace of the prose was perfect for the place and the situation. I love how it ended. This is the kind of story I love to read.
A beautiful story, and worthy winner!