I come to Port Beach when the noise is too loud. It's where the waves lap at the coast in the slow, even rhythm of an ocean unwatched. Rolling in and out, defined only by the need to soothe the shore. It's where seagulls squabble within their flock and haunt families eating fish

and chips from crinkled, oil-stained butcher's paper. Parents fuss when the Freo Doctor sprinkles sand across their food like chicken salt, but their toddlers spread gummy grins,

drooling snot and saliva on blue rashies.

I shed my clothes like worn armour and let the granules of sand dwell between my toes as I walk down to the shoreline. The water welcomes me home and holds me tender. I imagine it's a womb I am returning to, turning down the volume on white noise thoughts. I drift in its lukewarm embrace, letting it wash away the overwhelm in my ears.

I rest my chin on salt-encrusted kneecaps as the sun begins to dip low in the sky, and close my eyes against Perth's last day of summer. Warmth soaks into my skin, and I imagine my cells absorbing this moment. Guzzling liquid gold. Sprouting new leaves. If only it would last longer.

When it's time to go, blood orange clouds doze across the horizon. My calves burn all the way up the dunes towards the carpark. It's mostly empty, save for an older couple folding

their beach chairs into the boot of an old Mazda. The man opens the door for his wife and helps her climb in. Gravel is popcorn under tyres as I drive towards the Coast Road.

Heading home feels like being pulled out by the tide. Perhaps it's the absence of wind on my face, the way my lips feel more chapped out of the sun. And when I roll down a window, the salty decay of brine fades until only parched bushland remains. A dusting of sand on skin is the only reminder I have, but even that will disappear down a drain later on.

I'm halfway down the road when the noise returns in a dull buzz. And the further I get from the coast, the louder it clamours. Four metal dinosaurs in the distance bid farewell to the orb dipping below the sea line. I pull into the cemetery carpark to remember a goodbye of my own.

 

© Rachelle Erzay. From Three Can Keep a Secret published by Night Parrot Press.

 

 

Rachelle Erzay lives, works and writes on Whadjuk Country. She completed a Creative Writing Honours degree at Curtin University in 2018 and has had her short fiction feature

in multiple anthologies, Underground Writers and more. Rachelle drinks too much chai, is a sucker for tragedy and can normally be found spoiling her tuxedo cat, Melisandre.

 

www.nightparrotpress.com