Death on Dangar Island

Monday Evening

Dot sprung her trap just as Israel and Gary made it to their front door. She’d obviously been keeping watch for them through one of her side windows.

‘Hello, boys,’ she called cheerfully. Her flyscreen slammed shut behind her as she marched through the weeds. ‘I thought I’d repay your hospitality from last night with a little drop of my own.’

Israel, of course, smiled graciously and took the bottle of wine from her as he showed her inside. A quick glance down confirmed his worst fears. It was an execrable riesling of the lowest order. ‘How very kind, Dot. I’ll pop it in the fridge to keep cool and I will pour you some of the bottle that is already open.’

He waited until Gary and Dot were seated outside on the deck before he cracked a fresh bottle of his own, far superior, white wine. He poured two glasses, plucked a beer out for Gary and headed onto the deck.

After they were settled, Dorothy looked from the bottle of working man’s beer in Gary’s hand to the glass of fine white wine in Israel’s. ‘You two are the original odd couple, you know that? How did you get to know each other in the first place?’

Israel made a face. ‘That is not a pretty story, Dorothy. I wouldn’t want to bother you with it.’

‘We met on Bondi Beach back when I worked as a lifeguard,’ Gary chuckled. ‘That was, what? Almost five years ago now, I think.’

‘I really don’t think we need to go into this now,’ protested Israel.

Gary continued regardless. ‘I remember it was early December. A stunning day down at Bondi. The surf was just perfect …’

Israel cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows.

‘Something wrong, Iz?’

‘It was not perfect. The swells were massive and they pounded the shore mercilessly with a thunderous roar that shook my bones.’

Dot laughed and Gary looked to the heavens and shook his head. ‘As I was saying, the surf was perfect that day. A clean little three-foot swell with a gentle offshore breeze holding the waves up perfectly. Some of the younger blokes in my crew couldn’t help themselves and took rescue boards out to grab a couple of waves. I told the young ‘uns I’d keep an eye on things for them while they had their fun. It was the kind of day I just couldn’t imagine anyone getting into trouble.

‘It was fairly quiet in terms of numbers of people on the beach, so it was just me and two others left to look after the crowd. Then, out of the corner of my eye I spot this little dark bloke pottering around near the edge of the water. He was down in the southern corner, just near a rip. We call that “Backpacker’s Rip” because so many young tourists get caught in it. I thought he was just going to get his feet wet – he looked too old and wise to be jumping into the water so far away from the flags and in front of a sign that said “dangerous current”.’

‘I keep telling you that sign was facing the wrong way, Gary, otherwise I would not have gone in the water.’ Israel turned to Dot with his hands held out in appeal. ‘I was terribly intimidated by the water but it was so clear and such a beautiful turquoise I felt compelled to go in for at least a little swim.’

‘And you fell for the oldest trick in the book – choosing to swim where there are no waves.’

‘Wait,’ said Dot, ‘if you’re not a real good swimmer, wouldn’t it be safer to get in where the waves aren’t so big?’

Gary smiled and shook his head. ‘Jeez, here we go again. The waves break where the water comes into the beach. It pushes the punters back to shore. That’s why we put the flags up there. The calm-looking water’s where the waves aren’t breaking. That’s where all the water’s heading back out to sea. And that’s where inexperienced swimmers get caught in the outgoing rip and start to panic. I’m amazed when I hear people who’ve lived near the ocean all their lives ask that question.’