On The Rocks

- BOOM –

- SPLASH –

- swweeesh -

   ‘Oo oo?’

The Baboon stuck his head over the edge of the rocks and looked down. There, a good seven metres below, the mighty ocean heaved, boiled and bubbled, rising up periodically to slam into the small cliff he was standing on. Spray rose up as the wave hit the face, reached its highest point, and slowly collapsed into a descending curtain of water droplets. From the right angle rainbow colours flashed through it. From the wrong angle potential death lay waiting invitingly on the rocks underneath the water below them, reclining on a bed of seaweed, smiling winningly and showing a bit of leg.

   ‘Oo oo’, the Chief concurred. It had been a big one.

In spite of the onslaught of waves crashing into the rocks they were standing on, there were no waves in the bay. Whatever swell there might have been on the ocean wasn’t making it onto the beaches, and there was no surfing to be done. Erstwhile roaring shorebreaks were reduced to lilly-covered billabongs, ducks and platypuses were cavorting in the dead-flat waters around world-famous surf spots, and boards were gathering dust and spider webs in sheds and backyards.

With no surfing in the offing, they had resolved to try their luck at fishing instead. If they couldn’t get in the ocean, they’d try to pull something else out of it instead, out of sheer spite and vindictiveness if nothing else. If they couldn’t enjoy frolicking around in the salt water, then they were going to do their damnedest best to make sure that no fish was going to either.

They had picked their way down the headland in the dark of the pre-dawn night, carrying fishing rods and miscellaneous tackle, bait and other stuff. The night air had been warm and balmy, the quiet peaceful and relaxing. Corona Corridor, the narrow tree-enclosed walking track that was making a name for itself as the single most successful hot-spot for cross-infection in the country, was empty and deserted, and was negotiated successfully without any attacks of the Black Plague. In another two hours it would be a different story, when hordes of sports-wear clad exercisers would jog, walk and crawl up and down this path, on their way to a toned body, increased cardiovascular fitness and health, and an early grave from Covid-19 infection. The nation-wide message of “Stay At Home” was being widely interpreted as “when I’m good and finished doing whatever else I feel like doing first”.

In an unlikely paradox, the Baboon had found himself forced to put on a pair of shoes for the first time in two months. Arriving at the front of the cliff of rocks looking out over the sea, after having wound their way along down the mountain, they found that the long, narrow ridges of the rock formations were jagged and sharp, and unfortunately shoes were a good idea.

They had rigged up their rods in twilight, cast out into an ocean still dark and deep blue under the dawn sky, and were now squinting into the sunrise, glorious streaks of orange and red running from the sou’east to the nor’west.

The line snagged hard, bent sharply around the rod.

   ‘Oo oo! Oo oo!’ exclaimed the Baboon excitedly.

   ’Oo oo?’ came the measured reply.

   ’Oo,’ answered the Baboon affirmatively.

The rod bent back precariously, under the weight of something with a mouth full of gang-hooks on the other side of it, seriously reconsidering its commitment to eating dead fish, and rapidly regretting its decision to eat without properly looking at its plate.

   ’All right, here we go, watch him, him this one, he’s coming in ...,’ said the Baboon to the Chief.

   ’Bring him over, bring him over ... come to daddy ...’, crooned the Chief to the fish now being hauled out of the water, manic not only with the ordeal of having his mouth stuck on a hook and being dragged out of the water by his teeth, but also and more urgently at the prospect of having to spend his dying moments in the presence of two lunatics. He stared into the eyes of the Chief. Two madly spinning eyeballs glared back at him, accompanied by mad cackling laughter and two medium-sized columns of smoke coming out adjacent ears. The fish, Taylor by name and by trade, redoubled his efforts, seized by a mad panic. He had never thought he would end his days like this. His mother had always warned him “don’t go swimming too close to those rocks over there, they’re dangerous, and don’t run with that pack of Bream Boys. They may be shiny and silvery, but they’re no bloody good. You mark my words, boy!!!”. The words had rang in his ears as he was escaping the family sand patch at the crack of dawn, keen to get away from the clutch and explore the strange and exciting shimmering world at the far horizon. He had cause to regret it now.

   ’Here we go, reel him in now, oooh, he’s a beauty, this one ...’, Taylor heard one of the foul creatures exclaim. Great. Not only was he going to die miserably in dry air, but, to add insult to injury, he’d been caught by a pair of perverts. Who knew what unspeakable abominations they were going to visit upon him? If only he’d listened to his mum. He gave a manic twist with his tail, hoping to shrug himself loose. Wait, did that work? Was the hold of the hooks slipping a bit? Try it again! Woosh! Another wild fling of his tail.

   ‘Careful, careful, he’s gonna fall off ... watch it .... all right, I’ve got him!’

And Taylor felt two cold slimy hands close around his gills. A deep sense of impending doom came over him, his heart beat manically in his chest, not, he thought, for much longer, probably, and he put everything he had left into another mad swish-swash, rolling and bucking with all his might.

   ‘Steady ... steady, now ... let’s get these hooks out, ey ...‘

As Taylor felt the hooks being removed from his jaws he opened his mouth wide, trying to bite whatever was nearest at the same time as trying to suck in deep gull-fulls of clear, salty water, to get some badly needed oxygen to his overheating brain. He failed at both counts.

   ‘Rightio, let’s get this fella sorted out,’ Taylor heard one of the creatures muttering. He turned one bulging eye towards it. It seemed to be of simian shape and origin, a foul hairy creature with a bright pink arse the size and luminescence of the lighthouse beam on those nights, seemingly so far away and impossibly out of reach now, when that beam was lighting up the ocean floor disco as he was busting moves and showing off trying to pull those prim stuck-up Trevally chicks. Invariably he went home by himself, seething with anger and frustration at their pointless dedication to the cult of Neptune, which involved washing their hair three times a day in fresh water laced with diesel and plastic, and only having sex with stingrays. He hated those blokes. What did they have that he didn't, apart from massive wings that flapped in the underwater current, a wide open gaping mouth that made them look like ghosts, and a huge, long, hard tail with a spike at the end? He didn’t get it. And now it looked like he was going to die without ever having fertilised his first egg. What a waste to the world. He squirmed violently for good measure.

   ‘Oo, oo’ he heard the hairy creature utter, ’he’s still got a bit a go in him, this fella.’

   ‘Betta do ‘im quick, ey, ah rekkun,’ he heard the one with the mad spinning eyes join in.

What were they planning? How could this possibly get any worse? He twisted desperately, and managed to swivel his left eye around, so he peered directly into the eyehole of creature with the pink arse. He shuddered. He could stare right into the endless vacuum of its skull. It was a wonder these creatures managed to survive at all in this world.

   ‘Right-o, here we go, I’ll do him now ..’

Taylor blinked with his left eye. Out of the corner of the periphery of his eyeball he saw something that made his heart stand still and race double speed at the same time. Looming up above him, coming closer inescapably, was a long, silver-coloured implement with a decidedly sharp-looking edge on it, apparently, so it seemed, held in the hand of Pink Arse. This is what he had sometimes heard the old fish whisper about, behind their fins, on quiet cold nights when they thought the young fingerlings couldn’t hear. It was the fabled Knife Of Doom, reportedly wielded by the land creatures bent on fish-murder. Not many had seen it and lived to tell the tale. In fact, now he came to think of it, no one ever had.

He knew he was looking death in the eye, and pushed hard against the hand holding him, squirming to push out his dorsal spines, hoping to pierce the hand of his captor. As the Silver Edge Of Destruction came closer and closer to his throat, he heard Mad Eye exclaim suddenly:

   ‘Look out, here’s a big one coming through now!’

Upon that, Pink Arse, who mustn’t have been as thick as he looked, which, to be honest, wouldn’t really be possible, slunk deviously down to the ground, thereby hiding behind the rock upon which he had been standing when he pulled Taylor out of the water.

And as the Metallic Monster Of Murder pierced his gills and cut his throat, out of his glazing-over eye Taylor saw, the last thing he would ever see, a massive wave roll in from out of nowhere. It hit the base of the cliff ...

- BOOM-

-SPLASH-

... rose up high like a fountain of eternal life, a metaphor, Taylor just managed to think in his last dying moments, that was pointedly out of place and decidedly unfair, considering his circumstances ...

    reached its apex, blocking out the rising sun ...

... and, mingling with the spray of blood squirting forth from Taylor’s throat as it was cut, washed right over the top of Pink Arse, leaving him remarkably dry, which was a great shame, Taylor couldn’t help but note, ...

... and, in an arc as perfect and as beautiful as a rainbow over the ocean after a fresh monsoon rain, it bent right across the span of rock between Pink Arse and Mad Eye ...

And landed full square on top of Mad Eye, thoroughly and comprehensively drenching him to the bone.

   ‘At last, justice of a kind,’ Taylor thought with his last firing brain neuron, and died.