Chapter 3

Friday morning brought a long-awaited missive: a letter from Kevin at Black Mountain, ACT. I dashed off a note expressing my interest and tried to read. Orlando was impossible. I returned to Wilson. I was gripped by his writing of how the youthful fascination with things that then leads to the productive scientist.

Laura called somewhat after two. We arranged for me to call for her “around eight” on Saturday morning. We’d be at the parking lot at the Tyagarah Nature Reserve by ten. I stopped and tanked up on Friday afternoon. I also bought a six-pack of mineral water and some fruit. There’s nothing to eat or drink available there if you don’t bring it. I stowed the water in my fridge.

It promised a bright summery day at six on Saturday. I showered, put a pair of chinos and a jacket on a hanger, threw on a t-shirt and shorts, tossed sox, underwear, and my toilet kit into a bag and thought for a moment. I slipped on my runners. Thought again. No. Going commando was OK; she’d specified a nude beach. I then fixed and ate breakfast, took the mineral water and fruit out to my eight-year-old 4×4, and went back for my bag and hanger. It didn’t occupy much space.

Laura was waiting for me, a small case – an overnight bag? – at her feet. She wore another sundress and sandals.

“Buon’ giorno,” she said.

“G’day,” I responded, picking up her bag. “Is this it?”

“Certainly. Anything else my abductor has to provide.”

“Abductor?”

“If you ever get to Canto VII, Angelica is nearly raped by Roger.”

“Roger?”

“That’s what Spenser calls him. Several centuries of tales woven together.”

“Will you help me loosen the knots?”

“Verbally. Not like Alexander with the Gordian knot.” She laughed, climbing aboard my sturdy steed.

We chatted as we drove south on the Pacific Highway – actually southeast – veering a bit more southerly as we passed through the Gold Coast. Then there was finally a glimpse of the South Pacific, then the Gold Coast Airport and we were across the NSW border.

“That airfield is half in Queensland and half in New South. So I guess I’ve transported you across a state line for immoral purposes.”

The tinkle was back. “Oh, sir! ‘Immoral purposes’?”

“Well, I hope so. After my extensive investment in Renaissance literature and petrol. Surely a beauty like you isn’t merely leading on a simple youth?”

“And your investment in food and heady drink?”

“You, madam, chose the drink.”

“And so I did. We must both be at fault.”

“This is Brunswick Heads,” I said. “We’re passing through the Nature Reserve.”

“Isn’t it strange to have a major highway through a ‘preserve’?”

“That’s Australia. There’s no extensive development. The town’s between the reserve and the Bay. Anyway, we’ve not far to go now.”

I got onto Grays Lane, which magically became Black Rock Road as we entered the Tyagarah Nature Reserve. A few moments later I pulled into the lot on the right. There were a few cars and a ute there, and I pulled in as far right (southwest) as I could.

“Why here? Isn’t that the path?” Laura asked.

“Yes. But it’s about ten. After noon the sun will move west and we’ll have a bit of shade so that we don’t melt into ghee like Sambo’s tigers when we get in later.”

“Oh! I love that story when I was little. But I was told it was racist.”

“That shows how dumb folks are: Sambo and his parents are South Indian. Otherwise why would they eat dosas and ghee? It think it’s racist for Africans to think there aren’t other blacks. Helen Bannerman lived in Tamil Nadu, after all.”

“I never thought of that. Thank you.”

“How much do you want to take to the beach?”

“What I’ve got on and a towel.”

“I’ve got some fruit and water.”

“Excellent! And a blanket or towel?”

“I’ve a large bath towel. Let’s leave the two bags here, behind the front seats.” I picked up the water, the fruit and the rolled-up towel. She had a towel in hand.

“Avanti!” she said.

There was a fair-sized stretch of grayish sand between the brush and the water. There were a few people in sight south of us.

“Did you look up the tides?” Laura asked.

“Yes, dear,” I groaned.

“And... ?”

“High tide was around eight this morning, so low will be near 1400.”

“Nice. So if we walk north a few minutes and site ourselves, we’ll be in the clear till mid afternoon.”

“Good idea.”

We did just that. Laura said “Here!” and dropped her towel, stepping out of her sandals and untying the bow on her sundress, which fell to the sand. She was commando, too. I put down the water and the fruit, whipped off my t-shirt and toed out of my runners. In the meantime, Laura had spread my large towel, placed the six-pack on it and covered it with her towel.

“That should keep them a bit cooler.”

I nodded and dropped my shorts.

“Is the water cold?”

“About like a cool bathtub.”

She started towards the line of wavelets breaking. “What’s that?” she pointed south.

“Byron Bay Lighthouse. That’s the furthest east point of Australia.”

“Neat.” Laura turned and walked toward the surf. I admired her shapely bum. “C’mon.”

“I was just admiring the view.”

“Later. Swimming now.” She ran a few steps and dived into the shallow water. Standing, she posed, like Aurora rising from the waves, and beckoned. I could hardly resist.

“Lovely.”

“We can get to that later.” She headed into the water and struck out for New Caledonia, on the far side of the Coral Sea. I followed.

After a few minutes we were beyond standing depth and I caught up to her. She reached out under water and stroked (caressed?) me. I hardened a good deal.

“Have you ever tried it in the water?”

“No.”

“Touch me.”

I did; she was softly fuzzy.

“Nice. Do you think we could try here, or would we drown?”

“I doubt we’d drown, but it might not be fun. Let’s go in to where I can stand.”

That got the tinkly laugh. We headed into where I was armpit deep.