Barra

My first love. His little girl. And how I loved him, admired him.

He was my friend, my mate. We hung out together. Had adventures, went fishing.

He is from the ocean. He is in the ocean.

What patience he had. To prepare all those lines and rigs and rods and baits. Then to have me catch the first barramundi on that fated last trip. Oh but of course we caught it together didn't we.

Bubbles approaching, a sure sign of croc's. Feet wrapped in thongs, wrapped in mud. Up to our calves - no, up to our knees!

We while away some time with aimless banter and camaraderie, telling ourselves it's so nice just being there and it shouldn't really matter what we catch. Yeah right.

At last. The Barra strikes and I give that reel a good work out. I keep hauling it in, only guessing at the significance of the catch, the moment.

Just as I am about to land that fish - the ultimate catch - the bastard bites free, the line goes limp. It flaps on the bank, caught between fishworld and our world. Half way to the coal fire, and half way to safety back within the murky river.

1, 2, 3. Moments pass that last forever.

"Fuck Dad, its going to get away."

Then…

W H O M P !

My Dad, my wonderful, brave, funny, gangly-legged, gorgeous Dad slaps himself face first on to the muddy bank, right arm stretched high above his head and hooks that bastard barra under the gills. I catch sight of his half-shaved head.

We stand there holding all four shining feet of it aloft for the picture.

He died a few months later.

…………………..

2 May 2001

Libby Davy

291 words

First published in Newberry News, October 2002.