Undercurrents

Undercurrents

By Jeff Dowsing

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

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PUBLISHED BY

Jeff Dowsing on Smashwords

Undercurrents

(c) Jeff Dowsing 2017

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1

Down by the Sea

27-28 December 1987

‘Don’t let go Jack!’ Dennis exhorts his younger brother, the saltwater burning the red whites of his disgorged eyeballs.

For too long they’ve relished the rough and tumble of the swirling surf. Now at the sea’s mercy, the notorious Gunnamatta rip exacts its own sick sense of fun. The current dragging Dennis through deeper, darker water dismisses two flailing arms. Searching, stretching toes lose touch with the sand. Worse, in terms of treading water, cramp renders aching legs as useful as old rope.

Jack is faring only marginally better, merely tasting rather than inhaling the foul, salty brine. He too is in over his neck. A disconcerting mess of kelp entangle legs fast running out of kicks. The seaweed steals at least five.

Out of the rip yet still in strife, stolen breaths precede the next critical juncture. Faced by a daunting wall of water and a split-second decision, the boys must rise with or duck dive beneath the next wave. Too exhausted and too slow to react, a torrent cascades on them, their fleeting grasp broken. Forcefully pushed under again, they flounder no closer to shore. More gagging ensues as the energy sapping rinse and repeat cycle of nature’s great washing machine offers no respite, urging, no, demanding they reach a humourless punchline.

A sneaky gap wave trails close behind the previous dumper’s sizzling foam. The swell obscures Jack’s view of Dennis entering a perilous phase. Head tilted skyward, his arms’ tell-tale pawing motion foretells sinking, breathing his sole focus.

Hasn’t anybody noticed their life and death struggle by now, I hear you ask? Well, not their father Mick, engrossed in a cricket biography. Nor it seems the too distant lifeguards.

Meanwhile, lactic acid battles with Jack’s legs as carbon dioxide wages war with exploding lungs. Alone, he can barely save himself from oblivion in this mind-warping pavilion of fear. Jack hasn’t the oxygen to scream for his dad, nor brother, who’s failed to re-enter his line of sight.

Any embarrassment by their predicament sailed into shore two sets ago. Momentarily Jack entertains letting go and permitting the sea’s voracious appetite swallow him whole. Slip away urges his inner dialogue. Go with your brother.

No! You’re too young to die. What have you ever achieved? Nothing! Fight you weak bastard, and think!

As Jack endeavours to compose himself a call rises above the ocean’s thunderous treble and the bass notes of his pounding heart.

‘Over here, on your left!’

Another breaking wave demands attention. This time Jack submerges himself, emerging clean out the other side. His head swivels. Something or someone clutches his bicep before tugging at the rear of his board shorts, vigorously yanking him upward. With the technique of a dwarf thrower a powerful man hauls the teenager into an inflatable craft. The catch of the day.

The rescue boat lurches up and down with the swells and the water’s sideways flow. Feeling as pounded by the ocean as five rounds with Mike Tyson, Jack peers groggily into the churning depths; plaintive cries for his brother unheeded, so too his prayers.

Finally, Dennis resurfaces, 20 metres further ahead than anticipated, bobbing about like driftwood, face down, arms spread-eagled.

The lifeguard, resembling the burly underwear ad character Chesty Bonds, requires his female colleague’s assistance retrieving the limp body. Pulse negative, he commences textbook compressions commissioning the heel of his palm and the force of his robust upper body. His partner radios base whilst steering the craft. Her calmness betrays the urgency.

Shattered by the struggle, throat raw and dry retching, Jack slumps. Eyes closed, he wishes the nightmare away and begs for the warmth and safety of his bed. No such luck, the unfolding commotion is the real deal.

The inflatable motors toward the shore. Jack rides the bumps with a grimace, calves and hamstrings feeling bashed by a hammer. Another lifeguard arrives on the scene and lifts Dennis from the boat onto the shiny hard sand. By now Mick has been alerted to the drama. Jack clambers over the side with the aid of his father and falls in a bedraggled heap.

The bronzed female lifeguard realises Chesty is flagging and takes her turn at kick starting Dennis. A quivering mess of goose bumps, Jack rises to his feet. He places an arm around his dad who stands with hands clasping the back of his neck, unable to comprehend the frenzied chain of events. In turn the trio of lifeguards work on the boy. Five minutes elapse. Mick senses neither their hearts, nor Dennis,’ remain invested. Chesty gains their attention. The approaching Wales Search and Rescue helicopter renders verbal communication moot. It matters naught, his pained expression tells them all they don’t want to know.

Now Jack’s out of breaths. Mick crumples to his knees like a collapsible push puppet. A guttural cry releases from the deepest depths of his being.

Chesty lumbers over, the archetypal Aussie male specimen, physically and mentally spent. Never has he encountered a tougher day – this his third fatality in ten years donning the red Speedos, a career boasting countless saves. ‘I’m so sorry sir,’ all he can muster.

‘Sorry doesn’t help us,’ mutters Mick on his knees, glazed eyes drawn to a colossal container ship inconceivably floating on the horizon.

‘We did all we could. The rip, the wind… It’s wild out there.’

No words, no explanation is sufficient. Not yet, not for a long time. And nor is it the appropriate time for Chesty to question Mick being so far from the red and yellow flags in the first place.

Two paramedics disembark the chopper and run their procedural checks. No resurrection today. Dead in the water, now Dennis lay dead on the sand, pale and at peace. Mick places his hand on his son’s forehead and sobs. Jack weeps so much his face glistens wet. Never having seen a dead person before, the concept repulses him so acutely he remains adrift of his brother. Urged to take their time, a few minutes equate to more than Mick, and certainly Jack, can bear.

With the helicopter seconded elsewhere, they consign themselves to a hospital morgue journey by road.

‘For Christ’s sake, has somebody got a towel or a blanket?’ Mick pleads, agitated at the delay in covering the beloved deceased.

The ambos finally arrive and gently, respectfully, place Dennis on a gurney and swathe him in a blinding white sheet. Police take statements. The female officer consoles Mick, standing idle and disorientated. A hundred metres away a small esky, three towels, a book and a transistor radio warbling ‘Here Comes the Sun’ lay abandoned on the near deserted beach. It’s not alright. Half covered with sand by the burgeoning wind gusts, the items evoke a lost civilisation.

Mindful of the additional heartache dealing with such incidentals in catastrophe’s wake, the female constable gathers their meagre possessions before the arduous walk up the beach and over the dunes to the carpark.

‘What do I do now?’ laments Mick upon reaching their rusting Holden Camira, faded dashboard cooked and cracked by the sun.

‘Your boy here seems okay but he needs checking out. You might be in shock too so I can’t allow you to drive,’ the male policeman decrees. ‘Ride with the ambos to Frankston Hospital.’

‘Or if you prefer we can give you a lift,’ offers his female counterpart.

‘But our car-’

‘Don’t worry about your car, we’ll sort it out,’ reassures the male cop.

‘Dad, I don’t wanna be in the ambulance,’ pleads Jack, scratching out his first words since tumbling ashore.

***

Contrary to Mick’s expectations, the sun rises the next day, lodged mid-way between Christmas and New Year’s.

In no state for the lengthy drive to Melbourne’s northern suburbs, at the insistence of police and hospital staff Mick and Jack are holed up in a nearby motel.

Dazed by sedatives, Mick awakens in a fugue, the unfamiliar room heightening his perception of an out-of-body experience. The sight of one snoozing son serves as a reality check. In Mick’s state of mind Jack appears unnervingly lifeless. He resists the urge to rouse him, to be 110% sure. Eyes closed Jack resembles Dennis. Open - not so much. A flashback to his boys as sleeping babies induces a heart palpitation.

For Mick there’s a sense of déjà vu, having lost his wife Helen when Jack was barely three. He’s boarded the guilt bus before and found it teetering one stop from the edge of a cliff. In the first instance Mick packed his grief in a suitcase, seeking a new route that jettisoned him from north western Victoria (where he worked on the family farm) to Melbourne, where sister Teresa had begun her arts degree. She proved a saviour; a female influence in the boys’ lives and an emotional and practical prop for Mick who’d otherwise been incapable of making a living or a new life.

That’s not to say Tess and Mick shared a perfectly harmonious arrangement. Being a young girl determined to forge her own way, Teresa often felt trapped. And what constituted responsible parenting aroused periodic debate. Truth told, they both engaged in practices warranting a call from authorities. Nor was their task made easier by Jack’s sleeping and eating maladies and Dennis’ separation anxiety. Yet the boys outgrew their issues and made it to school largely unscathed. Life was smoother as Mick became less reliant on Teresa, necessarily mature beyond her years. The unconventional family unit enabled the boys to thrive, nevermind the tiresome explanations required to allay the obvious misconception.

Teresa’s relationship with Dennis was uniquely fluid and profound; first and foremost as his aunty, morphing into a quasi-mother and latterly more akin to an equal with shared interests. Teresa and boyfriend Frank Monza had begun sneaking Dennis into local music gigs and R rated horror movies at North End Cinema. Until she moved out permanently, after school homework entailed listening to David Bowie albums on vinyl, learning every line. Dennis loved the lush authentic sound of the old records - the way they hissed and crackled. Like Teresa, of Bowie’s phenomenal discography, Station to Station and Diamond Dogs resonated most. As an illustration of their connectedness, Dennis got Ziggy, and art, in a way Teresa wished Frank could. And Teresa and Dennis got their malleable dynamic, whereas Mick harboured reservations over the blurred lines of recent times.

Whilst reflecting on this and that, a shocking realisation smacks Mick in the face. Of all people, Teresa doesn’t know yet. On cue, an ear-splitting ring causes Mick to spill his dreadful attempt at coffee. He deftly lifts the handset to not wake Jack.

‘Mick, is that you?’ gasps a breathless voice.

‘Yes, it’s me Tess. I have terrible news. I was just about to call.’

‘Is it Jack?’ she guesses, assuming natural selection has chosen the younger.

‘No. Den.’

At the other end of the line a stream of tears roll down Teresa’s cheeks into the receiver. After a brief, harrowing interlude, she composes herself and punches out her angst.

‘Why didn’t you call me yesterday? I saw on the news a teenage boy drowned where you were going. I shit myself. When you didn’t answer the phone at home I rang the police and every hospital. I didn’t get anywhere until now. I haven’t slept a wink.’

‘I’m sorry Tess. It was chaos. When I finally found a phone I was so shattered I couldn’t even remember your new number. I’m so sorry, you should have been the first to know. I was lucky to get through to mum and dad. I thought they would have called you… Tess? Are you there?’

‘How’s Jack?’ she finally stammers.

‘He’s fine. Exhausted and lucky to be alive. But he’ll be fine.’

Again dead air, interrupted by a faint click.

‘Sorry Tess. Sorry Jack. Sorry Helen,’ Mick mumbles into the ether. ‘Sorry Den.’ He slides down, back against the wall, forming a large sobbing ball.

The phone rings once more. It’s not Teresa again, as Mick anticipates, but possibly a corporate tie representing the surf rescue association. It’s hard to know. He speaks too rapidly for 9.01am, let alone for foggy Mick to follow. After registering condolences the man apologises for his timing. Genuine tone aside, by the call’s inference Mick conceives the man is aligning their version of events. Whatever the case, it’s an odd exchange littered with question marks.

Mick isn’t interested in a court case, nor the standard coroner’s investigation. The reality is circumstances meant shit got real, real quick. And as Mick is informed during the call, somehow they’d ended up half a kilometre short of the patrolled section of the beach where he’d naturally intended to be.

Nothing is going to bring Dennis back, and as the lifeguard said at the time, they did all they could. Mick could see that.

Life can be fragile. He knows that.

* * * * *

2

Back to the Old House

7 January 1988

There’s hesitation at the front door. Mick and Jack haven’t spoken in the car, in fact they barely spoke throughout the dismal funeral. There is nothing untoward, merely an unwillingness to adopt words to validate Dennis’ memorial as real and not a figment of their imaginations.

Outside the air is warm and dry and the house unbearably stuffy inside. And silent. Nothing has changed. Everything has changed.

Jack busts the verbal impasse with his immediate, overriding thought.

‘I don’t want to live here anymore Dad.’

‘Moving won’t fix anything,’ responds Mick quietly. Deep down Mick feels the same but hasn’t the head space yet committing to such rigmarole.

‘I can’t stand it here,’ presses Jack, forehead sweating, eyes welling.

‘You can’t stand what happened. No one can. It’ll take some time.’

‘It will take longer if we stay here.’

‘Mate, leave it. Let’s just get through the next few days.’ Mick isn’t one to wish away time though he’d willingly sacrifice five years of his life to impart space between himself and the raw, suffocating agony of now.

‘I need a pack of smokes. If you’re looking for something to do…’ suggests Mick, aching for solitude.

‘I don’t need something to do. And how can I buy smokes when I’m barely fifteen?’

‘Please. Go see Lizzie on Valley. Tell her you’re Macca’s boy. Benson and Hedges. Here’s twenty bucks. Make it a carton. Get yourself something for your trouble. And careful passing the Bewlays.’

‘I know Dad, you tell me every time.’

In terms of the area’s reputation for disorganised crime, the Bewlays are mid-tier - not quite big league players, nor are they running round in the VAFA (Victorian amateur felons association). Curiously, Mick rates them higher, or lower, contingent upon how one grades such career paths. Des, the patriarch, is a veteran shyster who splits his time between home and a shared accommodation facility in Coburg (otherwise known as Pentridge Prison). Mick reckons Des paved his driveway with bluestone so he doesn’t feel homesick. The family business includes departments in social security fraud, theft, deception and theft by deception. When Mr Bewlay goes away ‘picking fruit’ he’s grateful for the latest vocational training Her Majesty’s inmates have to offer. Recent unverified rumours have Des the mastermind behind a series of ATM’s brazenly ripped from walls by utes in the outer north. Given the Bewlays’ modest abode, if Des is indeed the accomplished player he purports to be, either he conceals, drinks or loses the proceeds well.

Sadly for society Des found somebody dumb enough to reproduce with in foul mouth de facto Gabby. They defied the odds to raise two strapping, if not dim-witted lads whose notable achievements include growing mullets to rival Iva Davies, laden with enough chlorofluorocarbons to fast track the hole in the ozone layer. To Des’ relief Trevor and Rohan did eventually serve a higher purpose than fetching his next Melbourne Bitter. Besides holding down the ruck (Trevor) and centre half back (Rohan) in the local footy team in the northern thug league, they’ve applied their brawn and on-field infamy to add debt collection to the family portfolio. Nowadays the trading terms of the local drug baron, conveniently residing three doors down, are strictly adhered to.

As for garrulous Gabby, a steady flow of bourbon is substitute enough for dirty Des’ presence. She lives and thrives by a ‘hear no evil, see no evil’ mantra and would defend her sweet and tender hooligans to the crematorium and back.

Liberated from his hired black suit, Jack drags his bones and his ragged adidas Romes down the Verro Rise hill to the darkest depths of Valley Street, safely past the Bewlays. His BMX remains secure at home on milk bar runs since Dennis’ bike was flogged 18 months ago, having dallied over the composition of a fifty cent mixed lolly bag.

Nonetheless, Jack doesn’t think twice navigating these lean, mean streets affectionately known as ‘little Chicago’. It’s all he knows. And he knows how to avoid the endemic trouble which invariably finds those in the market. If by some chance a local tough wants ‘to go’ he feels confidently adept at the left-left-right-left-right combination ingrained by his dad, last deployed successfully in a pre-arranged after school bout with George Malpas in year 7. Failing that, he has the requisite speed to outrun just about anyone.

Besides, Valley Street was more volatile a generation or so ago. Sentimental blokes still reminisce over the fatal double shooting outside the mini shopping strip in the ‘Sixties, and the regular Sharpie v Mod clashes whilst killing time in the ‘Seventies. Needless to say, the remaining stores not boarded up are equipped with heavy duty roller shutters.

Nowadays, low level delinquency begins splattering the #567 bus with juicy ripe plums as it barrels into the notorious suburb’s most notorious street. Or it did, until the daily cleaning regimen persuaded the pragmatic bus company to divert the route. Consequently, callow throwing arms are instead trained hurling rocks onto the metal roof of Lizzie’s shop. This is better sport anyways; jolly japes begotten when Lizzie, permanently half-pissed on Southern Comfort, storms out of the store with her Alsatian ‘Rocky’ to defend her territory. ‘I’ll slice you in three!’ her signature battle cry whilst brandishing a Coke bottle.

Out of habit Jack checks the road for additions to the skid mark hieroglyphics snaking the length of the one kilometre drag strip. Local Torana driving graduates