Chapter 1: Dink
January 20th, 2010
Every beach has its own sound. A unique and distinctive oceanic onomatopoeia. This lapping shore tide was the complex tinkle of broken coral. Musical. Magical. Each tiny wave disturbed the coralline sands to repeat the peculiar meditative mantra.
Sitting under a stunted tree fringing the bay, Dink stared out at North Point. His favourite Australian wide-brimmed hat sat askew, shading his angular face from the afternoon sun. A deeply lined tan spoke of a lifetime of exposure to the elements. Along the break wall, the pinkish granite boulders sparkled with sea spray as the easterly swell smacked their hard, round bellies. A scattered flotilla of small fishing boats spread out across the calm bay west of the break wall, and a rowboat cut languidly through the glassy water. Colourful wooden shacks rimmed the harbour and the infrequent yet unmistakable sound of metal on metal emanating from within spoke of focused labours.
Dink was aware of him before he sighted him. A presence rounding the tip of Route Nord, the northern road on the island of La Bajan. From the westernmost shacks, loud but friendly passing greetings drifted towards Dink as the stranger progressed along the road. Dink’s gaze tracked to the farthest stretch of pavement where, emerging from between the dense roadside palm thickets, an athletic figure on a bicycle rode into view. His features were not clear at this distance, but his smooth, calm movements spoke of confidence. He waved casually and yelled reciprocated greetings whilst exchanging light banter with the fishermen in their shacks. The tone was amiable and the warmth and respect evident. Riding on for fifty metres, the figure stopped to chat with a man who had just emerged from an orange and yellow shack in the apex of the bay. The pastel walls of the fishing shack silhouetted the two dark figures; the fisherman short and stocky with a pear shaped paunch, and the man standing astride his bicycle tall and slim with a narrow waist and broad shoulders. Dink could barely make out the conversation at this range, but it appeared to be idle chatter. Money and a heavy plastic bag passed to the fisherman, who appeared reluctant to accept the offerings.
“No, my friend, it’s too much,” the fisherman’s lilting Sedois Island accent was full of inflection.
“C’mon man, you earned it.” Opening his hands palm outwards he declined to take back the offerings. “And I don’t want you to starve.” Both tilting their heads downwards to inspect the fisherman’s rounded abdomen, they laughed heartily. The exchange was completed with a common island saying, “And don’t tell me what I can’t do!” This old expression stemmed from the tough early years of inhabiting this isolated island. Hardy folk eked out a living any way they could. Positivity was essential.
“Yes. Yes. You’re too funny for your own good, Ajay. But I appreciate the fruits. I’ll bring the snapper to your house tomorrow.”
Widening his arms out to a metre span, Ajay jested, “Catch me a sea monster, Gregoire!”
The fisherman promised to do his best. They parted with a warm handshake. Gregoire disappeared into the shaded shack and Ajay was back on the pedals cycling in Dink’s direction.
Dink felt the strong equatorial sun on his bare belly and legs. He visualised the ultraviolet rays hovering and warming, in his mind like the crimped heat haze of a desert mirage. The thought of the desert made him wince. Dink was sitting in paradise but couldn’t relax. Too much had happened in the past few days for his mind to be clear. You stupid fool! he admonished himself. Everything had been going so well, all to his and Kylie’s rough plan, but Dink had ruined it in an instant. Despite his tiredness, this sobering reality still seemed like a bad dream. He was not yet ready to reflect thoroughly on recent events. Instead, closing his eyes he listened to the soothing tinkle of the tidal bay. Dink could remember other beaches with distinct sounds that all held special places in his life experience; the pobble of Positano pebble beaches, the swoosh of fine white Caribbean shores, or the squeak of Aussie beaches full of silica. This soothed him and he smiled at the thought of these places and the people the memories evoked.
The strong voice startled him slightly. “Yes. Good day, man?”
“Not bad,” came Dink’s automatic response. He opened his eyes to see the man standing over his bicycle and smiling at him from the roadside. Ajay introduced himself cheerfully, complete with a glint of white teeth and the sparkle of golden-brown eyes.
Sizing him up, Dink could sense the relaxed ease of this man and perceived a good spirit. “I’m Joe, but most people call me Dink.” He noted that Ajay was athletic, just under six-feet tall, and with a happy face and tight black curly hair. His straight fine nose enhanced his handsome countenance. Ajay had noticeably lighter skin than the other Sedois Island locals Dink had seen.
“You’ve found a great spot.” Ajay nodded at Dink’s position before turning to look over his shoulder and scan the coastline of North Point, the break wall, and the tranquil bay.
“Truly stunning,” Dink said, and meant it.
“Paradise in the Sedois Islands, man.” Ajay’s exuberant grin was like a beacon.
“I’m annoyed that my phone broke.” Dink’s arm sweep indicated the magnificence of the exotic surrounds. “I can’t take any photos of your beautiful island.” His face betrayed his genuine disappointment.
“We can sort that out, mate. No worries.” Many Aussie colloquialisms were familiar to Ajay and he had disarmed Dink.
“Have you been to Oz?”
“No, but I’ve met a few Aussies. Some of them were even nice.”
Dink raised an eyebrow but was used to this game between males. “They would’ve been from New Zealand!” he retorted snappily, and they enjoyed the joke. A brief but comfortable silence ensued. The expansive ocean glistened in the afternoon sun. Several seagulls streaked nosily through the sky.
“If you want, I’ll show you something special nearby,” Ajay offered.
“Perfect.” Dink gradually stood up, stiff-limbed after the prolonged posture. He grabbed his shirt off the ground and swung it over his shoulder.
Propping his bicycle against a salt-encrusted casuarina tree, Ajay strode inland along a small dirt path that appeared to head into thick forest. Dink followed. After a short walk the path widened, and small rough fields lay either side of the track and extended about a third of the way up the mountain behind. A dozen tall but wizened oxen grazed in the fields. Each ox was tethered by fraying ropes to large wooden stakes driven into the ground. Neat circles were cropped by the beasts and radiated out from their central restraints.
“This is the only place on the island where we can farm,” Ajay explained, “as everywhere else is too dry, or the soil too sandy.” He gestured towards the imposing granite tor that set a dramatic backdrop to the ox-farms. “Everything comes down from Mont Centrale, the fertile soil and abundant water.”
“It’s an impressive mountain for such a small island.” Dink craned his neck to better view the peak.
“The view is incredible but it’s tough to climb with the heat and humidity.” Ajay explained that it was over two hundred metres high and couldn’t be climbed from this direction, only from La Porte.
Dink mopped his saturated brow. “Perhaps we leave that for another day.”
Ajay was leading and headed left at the fork in the path that began skirting the fields. Crossing a small, deep rivulet by hopping across a few conveniently located stones, they entered a light-shaded forest full of banana trees. With
