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246 pages, Paperback
First published September 3, 2019
At night, tucked in bed and daubed with calamine lotion, we listened to the parents having a few beers in the kitchen and playing cards; the cheerful noise of friends.
Peter Mark Roget was born in London. His father was Swiss - hence the surname, which, as an Australian child of the suburbs, I've never felt entirely confident pronouncing. The year was 1779. Less than a decade before, Lieutenant James Cook had dropped the anchor of the Endeavour into the shallow waters of Botany Bay, an act which would eventually lead to the disruption and destruction of many of the continent's original languages.
From the bar at the ocean mouth through to the broadwater upstream, the water pours through channels, past sandbars and mangrove islands, into bays deep and shallow, repeatedly squeezing and spreading between landforms. My brother and I find the movements fascinating. How could we not, having both, as children, daydreamed on wharves, watching the current slide by, forever making then undoing itself in paisley whorls.
They bend over at the surface, but wherever tiny edges pierce the surface tension, light catches, so that we sit in an acre of sparkles.
The images of childhood are mythic, steering thought and lives in ways not always easy to discern.
I spent hours looking. At the mullet, the jellies, the sunlight ladders, the eddies. At toadfish going about their obsequious snooping.