Tide by John Kinsella

mysteries of the deep. The officer laughed and ruffled the young man’s hair. For he had grown so much since he’d last seen him. And his voice had finally broken!
    Just having a bad day, son! Would you like a magazine to take home and cheer yourself up?
    The boy said no, then yes and, taking it, glanced at the cover, thinking how much the woman on the front looked like Kirsten.
    Still having trouble at school, asked the officer.
    Yeah, said the young man, that never changes, but I’m glad it doesn’t. It’s better when things stay the same.

FLYING FISH (COUNTERPOINT)
    Flat out in the V8; Acca Dacca on the stereo. Loud. Yelling over the music. Pumped. They’re on their way to Geraldton to sort the travel arrangements for their Big Trip. The Boys (as they like to be called) will fly to Java, then board a ship in Jakarta and sail up the west coast of Sumatra to Padang. Then they’ll head inland, into the jungle, and see what happens. Swigging from a bottle of Jacks, they joke about how out of it they’ll get on Sumatran heads and mushrooms. Better than getting them second-hand in Perth. We’ll be stoned off our faces and won’t even know which country we’re in. Fuck yeah, out in the jungle being chased by Sumatran tigers!
    Around the islands the waters make shadows work up against the sun. It’s all in reverse. The flying fish skim the surface. Sometimes they fly right through you.
    At twenty years old, neither of them has been out of Australia, even Western Australia, before. They’re hyped. Steady on, Josh says. You’ll stack the car before we even get to Gero.
    The killing of cats at the rubbish tip. Picasso. Memory forged its links and the flying fish baking on the deck became overwhelming. All the dead they’d made stank in the tropical sun.
    Anything would do as targets by the wheat bins, the pickling air getting to them. They fired off round after round.
    Exocoetidae. Exocet. Josh’s mother was French, though she’d never spoken a word of French to him. Not even as a baby, she said proudly. The only register of her Gallic pride came when Josh’s school project on the Falklands War (‘Why the Falklands War, Josh?’ his teacher had asked) had gained a distinction, the high point of Josh’s schooling life. Exocet. French. Named after flying fish.
    Perry – real name Jake, but called Perry by a girlfriend who wagged school to watch daytime television: she called Jake ‘Perry’ because she thought she herself looked like Della – Perry guns the accelerator even harder, and the V8 Commodore hits 200 k’s an hour, the bodywork vibrating at maximum stress levels.
    As the sails of the fish take lift and the tail zigzags the glinting sea, orange-red at that latitude, at that time of day, the Boys are dazzled, confused. The kill urge is confused. The girls, the radical girls, are standing beside them. Looking out over the railings, the ferry furrowing north. The girls have peace signs on their batik tops. They are on the run, they’ve confided. A Marxist-Leninist group from Europe. They are German. This is history, Josh has told Perry, who wants to know if they’ve killed people. Bombed places. Josh won’t let him ask. They watch the flying fish, fast, sleek, full of purpose.
    Asians are okay in their own countries, says Perry. That’s what Dad reckons. We should be fine. Perry and Josh have hung out with white nationalists on visits to Perth. How did that happen? Guns. At the shooting range. Josh and Perry have handed out leaflets but didn’t really take much notice of what they said. Though Josh was a reader, is a reader, will always be a reader. But that’s what he claims. Who is he telling? Assuring?
    Cypselurus. Sleeker. Do they overlap? Cross flight paths? We’ve been friends forever. Neighbouring farms. Big farms. Eight thousand acres. Mothers lonely, both born elsewhere. Both with accents.