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Carolyn Roberts: Christmas Tides

By: Emanuel Fortisque

“What an amazing little girl,” says the rosy-cheeked lady in the front row, as I curtsy to my audience.

“And only six years old,” I answer.

She hands me a large bunch of yellow flowers, tied up with a floppy, lacy bow, like the one on mum’s anniversary present. I cradle them in my arms.

“Thank you, thank you,” I say. I nod my head towards the rows and rows of cheering fans.

“Well, looky-looky! Who are you supposed to be?” I dropped my arms to my side and turned quickly. My little sister, Sal, was pulling her way through the strong backwash towards me.

“I’m a famous circus performer. What about you?” I asked.

“I’m a ballerina. See me twirl!” Sal spun around. Her fingers formed foamy tutu-petticoats on the ocean’s surface.

“I don’t want to be a ballerina,” I said. “I played that last time and got water up my nose. This time, I’m a tightrope walker and I’m going to do my gravity-defying handstand. Wanna see?”

Her lip twitched up at one corner, a snarl. She shrugged.

“Do you want to play Ginger Beer instead?” I asked.

“Nope,” she said. “It’s too rough. I’m going to sit with mum.”

The sea was rougher than usual that day. These Christmas Tides, so mum said, always brought a big swell and cooler currents. We just needed to take extra care when swimming and always stay together.

Sal lugged herself off towards the shore. A small bump-wave lifted me gently and placed me down again a little way ahead. I wasn’t leaving. My audience was waiting to see my new routine. At the circus once, I saw a girl balance on her chin on the high wire. What a show-off! I can do that too. Even better, I’ll balance on the very top of my head.

I squirmed, squiggled my head into the sand. There! Now, arms out the side, legs open in a great big V. Careful! Chest back, forward. Uh-uh, this is not so hard. Uh-oh, tipping. No! Ack! Water up my nose, again!

I dug my toes into the sandy seabed and pushed myself out into the loud summer. I spat out, took a breath. There’s Sal. Where’s mum? I scanned the jam-packed shoreline for a blue and gray beach umbrella. Our umbrella had splotches, an old-fashioned design, easy to spot. Mum’s plump figure was also easy to spot. She didn’t often come into the water, but watched over us while we swam, directed us by hand-signals, kept us in line.

Striped umbrellas, floral, a nice red one, but not ours, and not mum.

From the side of my eye, I saw Sal waving. She was shouting. I watched her face twist inside-out, arms chop the air, fingers point. What game was she playing now? Ballerina? Horsey-Horsey? I pushed my hair behind my ears. The sea’s strong tug on my knees worried me. I wanted to skip over the waves one leg at a time, in an obstacle race to the shore, but instead I was walking backwards.

I swung around. A giant wave reared up behind me. It smashed down. Head smashed on the concrete sea floor. Nose exploded. Sand scraped. Bobbed, rolled, flipped up, flipped down, flipped up again. Sand fog, grey sock, plastic bucket in the face. Ugh! Neptune’s Necklace weed flocked by. A clearing: bluish sky through the water roof and two posts up ahead. I grabbed on. My legs like clock hands moved from front to side. My bottom hit ground. I clung on to the posts. The sea emptied away. I was safe.

“Yer right there, are yer?” I heard a voice say. I wiped my face with the back of one hand—kept a tight hold with the other. The man, whose long, white legs I had attached myself to, like ribbon seaweed to a wharf-post, was staring down at me. Ooh! Pointy nose! Black eyebrows! Like the Currawong birds that lived in the Mulberry trees in my back yard.

The man tilted his head just so, and tried to step free from the entanglement.

“I’ll get her,” said mum’s voice. Sal and mum came running along the damp sand. Sal had on her serious face and Mum the bright-blue rubber thongs she had bought at Coles that morning.

“Are you alright, love?” Mum asked as she pulled me up, directed my shoulders away from the Currawong-man. “Thanks for that,” she said to the man, her conversation continuing behind another wave-burst.

“I ran straight to mummy,” said Sal, “when I saw you go under.” She put her arm around me and we began a slow walk back to the umbrella, hunched over like two old ladies.

When we got back to shade and safety, I plopped down onto my towel, face-first. From my low, warm bed I could see the netted sack dad always took with him on his snorkeling trips around the nearby rocks.

“Something lumpy’s moving inside,” I said.

“It’s a crab, dummy,” sneered Trish.

She’s a crab, I thought.

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Article by Carolyn Roberts. To see the complete story visit: Carolyn Roberts: Christmas Tides

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