5.30am. The ocean roars. Sand hurtles up the beach whipping against my calves. I quickly turn, heading north towards Marcus Creek, conscious of the sand streaming at dog eye level, propelled by a southerly.
We walk, the dog and l, as is our custom on the firm sand at the waterline. I become aware of how close we are to the spinifex-covered fore dunes. No long stretch of sand to seperate the water from the vegetation; It’s one day off a full moon, and there’s a swell.
Out on the horizon something bobs, so I stop. Squinting, I make out a mast. Momentarily a whole boat breaks through appearing to sit on the horizon, only to fall back, disappearing beyond the waves.
My stomach lurches. What is a fishing boat doing heading south against the wind in this weather? Heading home with a lucrative catch of prawns for Christmas?