{"id":1719,"date":"2020-04-16T09:52:24","date_gmt":"2020-04-16T09:52:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/suewoolfe.com.au\/pages\/?p=1719"},"modified":"2020-05-01T21:55:02","modified_gmt":"2020-05-01T21:55:02","slug":"days-25","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/suewoolfe.com.au\/pages\/days-25\/","title":{"rendered":"Day 25"},"content":{"rendered":"

Written 13 April, 2020<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In the evenings we have fires, the pot belly upstairs and a tiny one in the cabin. It\u2019s glorious to go to sleep in soft flannelette sheets with a fire crackling. I wake at 5 to hear GG re-stoking it, and half an hour later I stir, go up the steps, \u00a0try to nurse K\u2019s fire back to life, fry her an egg and sprinkle it with thyme and leave it on a plate so I don\u2019t have to confront her after last night, go down the steps to the cabin with a cup of milk tea – the last of the fresh milk!- \u00a0and sit on the deck in my dressing gown, watching the dawn, writing this. I fall back into bed, and wake in full sunlight.<\/p>\n

The tide\u2019s coming in. Fishermen fish on an incoming tide. I\u2019ll row to Dy\u2019s cove, catch a fish for dinner, row back- \u00a020 minutes, he promised. GG reminds me that the pathway between the oyster leases and the channel lies between the two white posts.<\/p>\n

\u201cSee them?\u201d<\/p>\n

I nod yes.<\/p>\n

I used to row up the pathway, years ago. Anywhere else and you can get caught in oyster leases, and risk a hole in the boat. This morning I can\u2019t see the pathway. GG rings in the mobile in my tracky pocket.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve gone and rowed too far,\u201d he says. His voice is cranky, he\u2019s can\u2019t bear my vagueness. I don\u2019t mean to be vague, it\u2019s just that I forget not to be.<\/p>\n

\u201cRow between\u00a0<\/em>the two white posts. Look at them\u201d- he\u2019s trying valiantly not to raise his voice- \u201care you looking at them? Now? The two posts?\u201d<\/p>\n

From the water level where I am, the bay bristles with white posts.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re looking in the wrong direction. To your right<\/em>. Right!\u201d<\/p>\n

I always get right and left mixed up but I work it out as if it\u2019s a mathematical formula. I write with my left hand. Therefore the other hand is the right. It suddenly comes to me that out here, in this fraught Paradise, a long, comforting partnership could break up. I do my best to look right. I must be doing it correctly, because he says, a bit mollified:<\/p>\n

\u201cGo that way.\u201d<\/p>\n

He clicks off, sighing loudly.<\/p>\n

I row, trying not to notice that there are many beguiling white posts and turn at the \u00a0two nearest white posts, where he seemed to be indicating. Even this far away from the house – I\u2019ve been rowing now for 20 minutes- I can hear his yowl of irritation hurtling around the bay. I rapidly row back, turn left, \u00a0row towards another pathway of white posts, turn- another yowl of irritation, louder this time, going out the bay, down the river, out to sea, off to New Zealand. But I can\u2019t be directed by someone who can\u2019t see what I see, so I decide to ignore all further yowls despite what harm it may cause us, pull off my floppy hat, \u00a0with its trim of cream roses tinged with pink, to have more all-round vision,\u00a0 row on and find a pathway, although it seems to end in huge forbidding black posts which indicate the leases. I turn the boat in a circle while the yowls continue hurtling past me, so I\u00a0 row back the front, and that way I can see where I\u2019m going. My rowing back-the front becomes less rowing, more spooning. I spoon the river, spooning my way past huge logs that floated down in the horrific storm and are now stuck on each other and the leases, and finally get to the channel and then reach the far bank, far enough upstream from the point so I don\u2019t get mowed down by a day-tripper,\u00a0 and search for somewhere to tie up. The yowling has stopped. But everywhere there are\u00a0treacherous huge branches, so low they could knock me out of the boat, or muddy rocks where if I stepped out, \u00a0I\u2019d slide. I decide to sit in the boat and drift, for surely no harm can come to me if I drift gently. I bait the line with a prawn, a nice dry non-slimy prawn- – drop the line in, breathe deeply and for the first time, sit back and relax. From now on, all will be fine.<\/p>\n

Suddenly from beyond the point there’s a roar, and not a day-tripper but a huge oyster barge beetles around the corner, full speed, bearing down on\u00a0 me in my puny rowing boat like a semitrailer bearing down on a frightened wombat crossing the road. I grab on to the nearest low lying tree to try to steady my boat, and it swerves away from me and roars past, the driver never, never slowing down, but tugging his hat in an old-fashioned gesture at the lady in the floppy hat festooned with cream roses with pink tinges, just like my father used to dip his hat to every woman he passed in the street, whether he knew them or not. It kept him veery busy as I walked beside him, smile, tug, smile, tug, for no woman could be left out, he’d explain: it implied that she wasn’t a lady. Perhaps it’s my hat that’s brought out this courtesy, even while he almost runs me down.<\/p>\n

But the worst is to come. There\u2019s his wake. In his white V-shaped wake, my little boat tips wildly 45 degrees this way so I\u2019m almost touching the water, 45 degrees that way so my cheek almost brushes the rock. All I can do is\u00a0 grip the sides of the boat, willing it not to turn over.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Then his wake breaks on the shore, the boat steadies, I steady. I breathe, relax. But my line has caught \u00a0on a shelf of wild oysters, and no matter\u00a0 how much I jiggle it, it stays caught. I tug the line, break it, wind it in, and, without a hook, \u00a0decide to give up. By now GG will have forgotten his anger. He always does. be mollified. I row for home, \u00a0get there not 20 minutes but \u00a0an hour after I set off, I climb up the 40 steps, fall on the sofa and fall asleep.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

An oyster farmer(not the one of today) rushing to work. Our creek is light industrial, producing many of Sydney’s rock oysters.<\/p>\n

A transformed K, charming and sweet, stands smiling down at me and handing me a bowl of lentil porridge with rice, her first chore of the day. Her second chore is to find someone who\u2019ll sell us those blockout curtains we couldn\u2019t buy online at Ikea or get delivered to DB\u2019s boatyard.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cPerhaps Ikea took notice of you,\u201d she says, \u201cAfter all, that was two days ago\u201d. I laugh. As if. I think of the surly young man and my cheeky retort. As if. A company can\u2019t be that agile.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

But she\u2019s right! Ikea will allow us to purchase our blockout curtains online, and they\u2019ll deliver them to DB\u2019s\u00a0 in his boat yard at Brooklyn- \u201cno immediate delivery available but a delivery in the future\u201d. I pay and hope.\u00a0 As long as they deliver by winter.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sophie Davis sent me her drawing for today:<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

In the night, another email from Shelley in New York:<\/p>\n

Dear Sue<\/div>\n
I read your Easter missive and was so touched by it. I identified deeply.<\/div>\n
Some of my first\u00a0\u00a0\u2018sense of the sensuous\u2019 were also with velvet and silk-not in a church, but in my grandmother\u2019s swap box. The absolute joy of feeling the Colors, the textures and how they recalibrate body temperature and filled the eyes.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
The closest feelings i had known prior to these was the sand on a sand bar in the atlantic ocean and a bed of moss around our little grove of pine trees…<\/div>\n
I loved reading that little girl\u2019s from the scrap of velvet in the little match box to a church\u2019s profusion.<\/div>\n
For me, Reliving this memory of beauty is the closest I think I will ever feel to holiness.<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
Thank you!<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
Love<\/div>\n
Shelley<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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