by HEATHER McRAE
Under the beach umbrella I watched Dad swimming far out
past the sand banks and the pale shallows
arms forking, dark head moving through blue ripples
At the ocean beach Mum called the crests white horses, said don’t go too close to the edge
when Dad’s hat blew off
I listened to them quarrel over wading in to save it
and wondered if one of them would be swept away
till a wave landed the hat at Dad’s feet
When we arrived at the Balnarring house
Dad saw its name and said ‘a P.O.W. lives here!’
Yazme, yasumi, one of the first Japanese words the prisoners of war learnt: break, smoko
That was before we saw the tangle of tea tree, heard the wattle bird in the banksia
and the sea’s night-time breath
You could hit a cricket ball to the beach, we were told
We had floorboards before they were retro
and dining chairs that left criss-cross patterns on bare thighs
The plates and cups with their blue and green Aztec suns
unpacked from their nests of wood shavings
radiated hope
I didn’t like the unfamiliar beach with its scratchy sea breeze
then my brother and I dug chains of ponds in wet sand
built high walls for the sea to destroy
walked for hours on reefs, with weed spun crab harbouring pools
flung ourselves into mounds of leafy seaweed
But that first summer when Dad went to hospital back in town
we were packed off to neighbours in a holiday house up the road
Dad died in March
In his wake, we trailed to the beach
no head bobbing in the waves
no arguing with the tide
– Mornington Peninsula, VIC