It’s always chilly at night, especially in a small boat like this. I’m not exactly sure why we’re drifting around the harbour in a small tin boat. I don’t make the decisions. It doesn’t seem strong enough to withstand the sudden winds that we know can come over the water. I’m afraid we’ll be swept into unseen rocks or overwhelmed by a wave, but I just sit here and watch Cary pulling the oars. I’m not strong enough to steer us back to shore anyway, and the harbour, with all the lights on the edges and its dark recesses, is beautifully and eerily captivating.
There’s an old ferry floating out here. It’s so quiet here, and the ferry floats, a dark shape. It is all shadow, left behind by the years. The bridge, glowing above us, dominates the sky. We’re playing with something bigger than us entirely.
Cary doesn’t seem worried. He’s just tugging at the oars, steadily rather than quickly, glancing over his shoulder to check which side needs strength. I wonder if he can read the water, if the ripples and darkness are like a language to him. I’m afraid we’ll be caught by a current and dragged out of the harbour, thrown against North Head or whisked to sea, where Cary’s arms won’t hold us and I’ll be chopped apart by the waves. If I were steering, we’d be lost. He must know his way, I suppose.
I want to say something, but I don’t want him to know that I’m afraid.
“It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it, Cary?”
He glances at me and grunts, turning back to pull the oars again, pushing me further out into the darkness. I bite my lip and pull my blanket around my shoulders, and look at the landscape, at the newer ferries slipping by like electric eels, empty of passengers and yet still lit, close to retiring for the night.
This part of the harbour is animated with shadows, with city lights stretching out and flat puddles where the glow doesn’t reach. The rides at Luna Park spin and turn in red and orange and pink and blue, and the colours meet together on the water, rearranged and repeated as if in a kaleidoscope.
“Look, Cary! I’ve never seen Luna Park from this angle!”
He ignores me for a few moments and then speaks into this silence.
“You don’t need to make conversation.”
His voice is harsh and deep. His voice is always harsh and deep. I don’t know what to say, and so I copy Cary’s stillness. I set my gaze upon the passing shores and the lights of the city. I watch the water trailing behind the boat. We don’t have a motor, so we’re moving slowly, but I can see the marks where Cary’s oars have pushed down onto the surface, tested the water’s polish.
We’re miles from the shore, I think. It couldn’t be more than a hundred meters away. I know these bays are polluted, but they feel clean, intimate. Cary told me earlier, as he tossed a wet rope into the boat, that I shouldn’t put my hands in the water, that it was dangerous. The drips formed a dirty puddle around my feet.
It’s so cold.
I can’t find structure in this darkness. The world is made of light and shadow, and the lights are dots and dashes now, and there are clusters of dots and solitary dots and none of these dots are close to us.
Another boat passes us. I know, from the glow of the water, that we aren’t far from the pier. I can feel our boat moving, gliding over the surface, but I still don’t know where we are. It’s easiest just to look at Cary, his movement paced with the water, still pulling, wearing a t-shirt and immune to the bitter temperature. I feel as if something has changed between us, as if a knot has worked its way toward our centre and tightened there.
I grip the edges of the boat.
“Cary, I’m scared!”
He stops moving and he looks at me, more seriously now, puzzled, pulling the oars in and resting them on the edges of the boat. I catch his eyes in the darkness. He’s worried, perhaps, or he’s angry. We’ve rowed somewhere. We’ve bumped into something, but I don’t dare to suggest we stand up or push the oars out again. I’m still afraid, but I’m not sure if I’m afraid of the water’s current now, or of something between the two of us.
I adjust my blanket and Cary reaches for his oars. We are sitting in our boat, silhouettes, too small to notice. Our shape forms in the absence of light.