Tracks in the Sand

Wispy strands of her straw-blonde hair catch in the cutting wind and wrap across Hanna's face. She turns to release them again, looking back to see the trail her footprints have made. They recede from her along the beach and simultaneously march toward her in the sand. Which is more poignant, she ponders. She thinks about the belt of sand she is strolling on; both the extreme edge of a vast continent and the abrupt border of an enormous ocean. Here everything inspires her to wonder. The waves reach out, almost licking her, then toyingly pull back, tricking her, as if enticing a reluctant child.

Hanna looks up to see another fascination on her new path of philosophy. Interwoven treads of various vehicle tracks run like a four-wheel drive highway along the hard-packed sand. She is held in awe at the symmetry of this, a long thin matrix of industrial design. It seems so incongruous, an aberration, now pock-marked by her footprints, weaving along the edge of the universe and disappearing into the sea-mist in the distance.

She crouches to view more closely a tiny shiny shell, partly buried in the silky sand. With the intention of lifting it, to examine the underside, she reaches out but hesitates. Has she the authority to disturb this perfection? She gently brushes its pearly sheen, then draws her hand away, leaving the shell to nestle still in its bed.

Standing once more to view the sea coming to play, she jumps away in fright, startled by a four-wheel drive ute roaring by within inches of her. The shock flashes in her very bones and skin, then begins to dissipate, before turning to revulsion as she is drenched in diesel fumes, enveloping her in an invisible chemical veil. Rattled by the aggression, Hanna retraces her footprints towards the free-camping area and her waiting van. There is unpacking to do and preparations to be made for her stay. Reaching over her shoulders with both hands she pulls the hoodie of her jacket up over her head and bends into the wind.

As she nears her chosen site, however, Hanna is dismayed to see the offending four-wheel drive vehicle parked not twenty metres from her own. She'd seen the swag set up there earlier, when she'd arrived, and had only parked so close for the direct sunlight the site provided. At that time there was just a swag, but now the picture is complete. Setting his campfire is a classic true-blue Aussie bushie: a young man about her own age, bearded, jeans, Blundstones, blue-and-black checked flannelette shirt, powered esky, cooker on a foldout table, camp chair, swag, beer - and his fourby a black jacked-up Landcruiser. His music is ringing out a little louder than Hanna considers necessary here. Oh, shit, she thinks to herself, unintentionally passing judgement on him.

All is cool for a time however until, campfire blazing, the young man fires up his Landcruiser and sets it idling, then turns the music up to compensate. Hanna considers reproaching him but decides she should just let it slide. Then later, the sun beginning to set and the motor and music still thrumming inside her head, drowning out even the sound of the waves, Hanna downs tools and strides over with intent.

"Hey, look. I'm sure you've got a good reason for running your motor at this time of the evening - for so long - but could you please educate me about what that reason might be? I'm camped right there and your muffler is not muffling anything! It's amplifiing!"

"Yeah, me battery's low. Gotta run the lights, esky, play music 'n that," the young man replies, deadpan.

"You don't have a solar panel?" Hanna inquires, incredulous.

"Nuh. Like to keep things simple."

"OK, well, I suggest maybe a solar unit could be your next purchase. Then, while you're tearing up the beach, running over turtle nests and scaring people, you could have the sun re-charging your batteries!"

"That was you on the beach?' he asks, ignoring her free advice.

"Oh, you noticed?"

"Yeah, you jumped right out in front of me. Didn't you hear me coming?"

"What, with the waves and wind so loud?" This elicits no reaction. "Anyway, all I did was stand up, not jump."

"Right. What was that about turtles?"

Hanna lets out a lung-full of exasperation. "This beach is a sea-turtle hatching area. It says on the signs?"

"OK. Cool! I didn't know that."

"Yes, they hatch out in the dunes and, if they make it across the sand - dodging Toyota Landcruisers and Nissan Navaras - they might get to the sea, where they can live for thirty years. If they survive, they come back to this same place, this beach, play Russian roulette with you and your mates all over again, and lay their eggs. And the cycle continues." Hanna feels her exasperation wane. "But only about one-in-a-thousand make it back... though." It isn't his fault, she thinks, that he's so unaware.

"Cool. You seem to know a lot about it," he suggests.

"I'm studying them. Marine biology course... at uni... that's why I'm here... observation."

"Right! Beer?"

"OK... look... no. I'm getting ready... well, I'm going back to eat something. And, could you turn that bloody... your motor off, as soon as you can. It's really pissing me off." Hanna turns towards her camp.

"Right! Well, if it's pissing you off that much, it's probly best you piss off too then." Hanna isn't sure if she heard right, if he meant that as light banter or an impolite dismissal. Both?

"Funny!" she ventures, continuing on.

"Enjoy ya mung beans! And kombucha!" he calls. Now that was light banter, she thinks. Maybe.

"Yeah, ok, I will!"

"Nice 'Friends of the Earth' sticker on your fossil-fuel-burning bus by the way!" Ouch, not so light that one, and now tinged with, yes, sarcasm.

"OK!... Thanks!... Arsehole!" she hits back, not confidently. It was a cheap shot, she realises, but at least it was something.

Twenty minutes later, with the young man's engine and music still reverberating through the stringybarks, and hardly believing she has to do this, Hanna is on her way back across to his camp. This time, however, with a different approach - and a different request.

"Hi, listen, my name's Hanna." She begins sheepishly. "You wouldn't have a match or a lighter would you? The spark-thing on my camp stove is on the blink."

"What about the sun, you couldn't harness that?" Hanna's hands go to her hips, her head cocked to one side, mouth set in feigned exasperation. "OK, here, have these matches. I'm turning the engine off now, so will you have a beer with me?"

"Well," Hanna hesitates for a millisecond. "Yeah, ok. I'd love one."

"Bewdy."

"And one more thing. When I was on my way here this afternoon, I was intending to shop at the grocery store, the only one, but I missed it by two minutes. All I've got is a couple of crackers, some lettuce and a tomato."

"OK, I think I detect a theme developing here. Me, all I've got is a bit of steak and two potatoes. Not much. So how's this... I'll see your lettuce and tomato and raise you a steak and two potatoes."

"Yeah? OK, in that case, I'll see your steak and potatoes - and the beer you mentioned earlier - and raise you a joint," drawing a thinly-rolled racehorse out of her top pocket and holding it up. "And maybe another one for dessert. Oh, and my two water crackers!"

"Ha, ha! You win! It's your game! Zeek."

"Sorry, what?"

"Zeek. My name."

"Oh, ok. Mine's Hanna, as I said."

"Like 'zeek and you shall find'."

"Oh...huh." Hey, light banter!

"Aww, but I didn't mean anything by that, ya know... that I'm seeking... anything... ya know..."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't worry, I didn't think anything of it."

"Hanna, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Beer?"

"Sure, and have you got any other music?"

Out in the grassy dunes, pregnant turtle eggs lie warm and waiting, the sea crashing and churning, the waves licking lovingly at the shore, receding again, only to advance once more.

The tide rises, slowly... but slowly.

Inexorably the tide plays in.

© Owen Smith 2022