Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 2

Colby was out cooking up some toast in the kitchenette when I awoke. The air was already hot in the small donga accommodation and I threw off the single sheet restlessly. It is the only protection from the busted up fan which spins methodically throughout the night.

6:00am…

Really was it that early? I stood up tiredly and then sat down again in front of the television for a few minutes of Morning Sunrise. Meanwhile Colby fixed up a strong caffeine mix for the both of us. Most of the time since first arriving Colby would have already had the first pump running before I even thought about waking up, but somewhere, somehow I had ended up on the payroll.

The morning felt soft and warm against my bare skin as I walked outside. There is nothing better than waking up dressed in a loose pair of board shorts, so natural, so normal and just so right. It reminded me of those early mornings during the school summer holidays, all excitement, anticipating another long day on the sandy white beach.

The Oyster farm, most commonly described as the bum-fuck rat warren is located on a small tributary to the south which drains into the Carnarvon basin. Surrounding the oasis of dishevelled structures is kilometres of dusty infertile salt marsh, baked crisp on top. The drive way and overhead powerlines, the only form of infrastructure comes in from the north side off Oyster Creek Road. The road is a skinny compacted gravel path which regularly floods when the tide comes in.

This is certainly a contrast to the cushy office job back down south, I thought as I looked out over the makeshift boardwalk. The knife was in my small canvas fishing bag down near the water and I pulled it out as I made my way to the crude pontoon. Some nights I would sleep out here, in my comfortable swag and just look out into the peacefulness of the Midwestern stars. Last night though, I slept inside.

Through the early ray of light I could just make out the fishing line, the loose couple of rolls I had left unravelled were gone and the line was taught. Always a good sign something had taken the bait I’d left out the night before. Reaching down I pulled swiftly at the line to make sure I had something on the other end, dead weight. I pulled again and the line restricted around my supple fingers. Placing the line back down I looked into the murky waters as the tide rushed in. The line pulled increasingly tight again. After a brief moment I reached down and drew at the line once more, this time with as much strength as I could muster. It was moving, but hellishly slow. I struggled as it bit into my fingers. It hurt, but in a good way.

The blood started pumping though my body - adrenaline. Hell, I wonder what it could be? It didn’t take long to find out unfortunately. The end of the log poked out of the water first and I looked at it thinking how unusually heavy it was. I grabbed at it the first chance I got, hoping to take some weight off my hands. It was rotten and crumbled in my fingers, I wrestled at it some more, grabbing at it, finally getting a good hold and I struggled at the mammoth log to bring it aboard. The line was intertwined and looked like an ornate dream catcher weaved by some spiritual wizard, I traced the line, and there on the end was a nice size spotted cod.

You beauty, I thought to myself and quickly detached it from the hook. Leaving the log on the deck I scuffled off the dodgy pontoon and up to the feeble accommodation. Colby was just walking out to start the day when I showed him the catch.

“Is it still alive?” He asked disinterested.
“Yeah, but it’s been on the line all night”, I replied, holding it out fondly.
“Well, chuck it in the pond” and with that he walked off into the shed and disappeared around the corner.

I could tell he was keen to get started and I knew he didn’t want me to be far behind, though he never said anything. I shimmied between the store and the donga, through the work shop and out of the garage to the ponds. There was a series of ponds which held a variety of fish, I dropped it in the first and watched it dart off into the shallow weed. The Mangrove Jack drifted out and looked up at me in anticipation of some food.

Better get to work I thought mindfully.