London Bridge has Fallen

I spent a lonely day on earth driving from Melbourne to Port Campbell on the Great Ocean Road. It was a drive I despised. Years before, I'd travelled the road on the back of a motorcycle, and I liked it just fine... that once. The next time, I had a hulking brute of a man in the passenger seat. When we got to Geelong, he had asked; "Is it much farther?". When we got to Lorne, he said; "How far now?". When we got to Cape Otway, he said; "I'm getting sick of this". By the time we had reached the scenic stretch of coastline between Princetown and Peterborough he had ruined the entire road for me. I could not travel it again without feeling that time was wasting.

Hulking Brute did not end up feeling that way. He visited every viewing point possible, took roughly one thousand photographs and told me he appreciated me bringing him up there. When we went to see London Bridge, he looked at the gap between the land and the rock island and said he wished he had been able to walk across the bridge. I told him I had done it years ago, before the bridge had fallen. I had a photo of myself sitting in the middle of the bridge. I began to tell him what it had been like to sit there, but he told me to shut up and stood at the edge of the cliff to take another photograph. I looked at his wide, complacent back and thought about how small my hands would look as they pushed him.

I've always remembered that day on the bridge. The sky was a misty shade of azure and the only white in it came from the wings of seagulls. I was wearing black denim shorts, a pink T-shirt and black, strappy sandals. I was sixteen years old and I was just beginning to think that I was beautiful. I walked down the path to the bridge, watching my feet as I chose the parts of the path I thought I could tread on safely. I could picture myself in my mind, coming down the path like a leggy filly, placing each neat hoof with care. My feet even felt round and hard.

My friends were already on the far side of the bridge. I stepped onto it, thinking that one day this bridge would fall into the ocean. I did not expect to be alive when that happened. I walked a little way across and then stopped to look down at the water. Tourists bustled past me, in a hurry to get to one side or the other. I wondered if anyone else was looking at the water. It was then that I noticed the fisherman.

He was sitting in the middle of the span, his legs dangling over the side. He had a long rod in his hands and seemed unaware of anything except his line and the water far below. I walked across to him and looked over the edge to see where his line went. The line plunged into the clearest water I could imagine. I could see the white sand on the bottom and the seaweed growing at the bases of the bridge – and I could see baby sharks swimming around the line. When I saw the sharks, I crouched down beside the fisherman. 

"Are you trying to catch a shark?" I asked.

The fisherman was a rough-looking man. Heavy creases bracketed his mouth and furrowed the flesh between his eyebrows. His eyes were a light, reflective blue. They were bloodshot. His irises stood out from the fine veins as though they were superimposed upon them. He looked at me for only a moment, then looked back down at the sharks. I could tell he did not want me to be asking him stupid questions, because his voice, when he spoke, was as flat and bored as he could make it. All he said was 'no'.

I looked down too. The sharks were swimming in aimless circles. They neither approached nor abandoned the bait. They were pale, streamlined and beautiful.

"Why not?" I asked him. "I'd love to catch one".

The fisherman grunted and shifted his buttocks a little. I kept staring at the sharks. Finally, he forced out an answer. "Want fish, not flake."

I found his answer strange. I did not know why he would choose this spot to fish. I could only see sharks in that clear water and it was a long way down.