{"id":5396,"date":"2023-01-25T16:41:29","date_gmt":"2023-01-25T06:11:29","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/?p=5396"},"modified":"2023-01-25T16:41:31","modified_gmt":"2023-01-25T06:11:31","slug":"announcement-jillian-smith-wwwc-sapphiretown","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/2023\/01\/announcement-jillian-smith-wwwc-sapphiretown\/","title":{"rendered":"ANNOUNCEMENT: Jillian Smith wins the January WWWC!"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"\"<\/a><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

We\u2019re 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.<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Read Jillian’s winning entry below.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

Sapphiretown<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019s no town either. Just a sparse collection of intermittent shacks among the acacia and native pines. Just up the beach at Millionaire\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019s windows, wrapping the little house in strips of black.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cate knew the old man never really cared about the house. He\u2019d 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. \u2018She\u2019s a sleeping beauty,\u2019 he\u2019d say. ‘She\u2019ll wake up a princess.’ Every holiday he\u2019d drag the family to the shack with its long-drop toilet and diesel generator, and he\u2019d 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. \u2018He loves that boat more than his own children!\u2019 her mother would say after they divorced. It was almost true.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/a>
Image courtesy Jillian Smith<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Cate\u2019s key sticks in the lock and she shoulders the door, stumbling into the main room. Of course the place is filthy. It\u2019s been years since anyone was here. <\/h2>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019s boat on the water. She mouths the caption without having to read it: Sapphiretown, the Hidden Gem of Kangaroo Island.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is too hot and sad inside.<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019d 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. \u2018Just too busy,\u2019 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\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fuck this.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019t hurt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019s 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 \u00a0above dozens of shadows wafting in the water below crosses her eyes. She remembers now that this is a place for rays.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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 \u2013 only a few flaps of its long wings \u2013 it is over the bay\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Drowsiness washes over her. She\u2019d been up before dawn for the ferry. She feels the power of wildness calming her breath, slowing her body. <\/h2>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

She feels her sister, pinching her. So annoying! Always trying it on. <\/em>Can\u2019t you just leave me alone? <\/em>Catie, her father yells, <\/em>Come on! They jump in the dingy as he pulls the starter. It revs into life and they bounce across the ocean. It<\/em>\u2019s cool now, the sea has changed from blue to grey. She<\/em>\u2019s at the front and the wind whips the water into her face. She can<\/em>\u2019t 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. <\/em>Daddy, this is my floating cubby house. He\u2019s smiling. She knows she<\/em>\u2019s her father<\/em>\u2018s favourite<\/em>; <\/em>she<\/em>\u2019s the only one interested in the boat. She helps him, holding this, measuring that, playing by his side as he works. Ha ha \u2013 Daddy let me name her, not you, little sis. Now Catie\u2019s swaying in the hammock off the boom. She<\/em>\u2019s climbing the mast, up top in the harness, away from her mother\u2019s eyes. The sails unfurl and flap then fill with wind and <\/em>Sapphire Lady dances across the bay. Silver grey bodies flash and dive as the bow cuts the water. <\/em>Daddy, daddy the dolphins are back look they\u2019re swimming upside down Oh look daddy! it\u2019s got a baby! So happy so happy\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019s time to leave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019ll be a big job, that\u2019s for sure. She\u2019ll need extra time off. But she might stay a while.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Entries are now open for the next WWWC!
Find the latest prompt and deadline information here<\/a>.<\/h2>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

We\u2019re 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.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":11,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"advanced_seo_description":"","jetpack_seo_html_title":"","jetpack_seo_noindex":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[80],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5396","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-for-fun"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p4v1Of-1p2","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack-related-posts":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5396","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/11"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5396"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5396\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5399,"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5396\/revisions\/5399"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5396"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5396"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.wakefieldpress.com.au\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5396"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}