Connected
Josh Thomas, Year 8
As the silky sand sinks between my toes, I gaze around admiring my beautiful home, the Coorong. The hills rise and cascade to form grassy waves of thriving wildlife and nature. I can hardly imagine being back in with my lot, where I was trapped within myself. I was a shell, not even able to marry the woman I wanted to. I realise now, that everything in my new life, my new home was perfect. The peace and blissful quiet with Country healed me to my fullest self and I became whole again. All that was even before I met Michael, a brave, loving boy who adopted baby pelicans and offered them fresh hope for a new life. He is always slithering through the shrubbery or gliding down the beach, showing and teaching me about obscure creatures of which I have never even heard. When the skies are thundering and screaming, and rain is flooding the seas, he shows no fear, often venturing far out into the fog. His bravery left me no choice but to name him in my native language. Mantawu Ngawiri. Storm Boy.
As I continue roaming along Ninety Mile Beach, the luminous water catches my attention. The surface sparkles and glitters, softly reflecting rays from the beaming sun above. The gentle breeze wanders through my hair, providing relief from the sweltering heat. The merging of water from shallow turquoise to deep royal blue with constant wandering shadows is mesmerising. On the shore, tiny white pebbles and shells appear and they remind me of prehistoric eggs, sloshing in the foamy cocktail of whitewash and sand. As I open my mouth to breathe, the salty scent from the ocean tickles the back of my throat. Pelicans dance through the water, diving to gaping depths as they search for food. In the distance, I see my favourite thing of all, which also marks the end of my stroll. It is a rotten hunk of wood that looks like a cross, with peeling layers of bark and dried, golden lines where sap once trickled. Hideaway Tom, Storm Boy’s father, made it for him so he would never get lost on his endless journeys. I’ve heard stories from his father. Storm Boy would sometimes leave when the sky was painted in splashes of violet and pink at dusk and return after the sun had collapsed behind the horizon of the world. Now, as the canvas of the sky glows a vibrant array of colours, the roar of the screaming sea slowly sank to the soft sound of sloshing water. Miniature waves licked hungrily at the shore, reaching to my toes.
“Fingerbone Bill! Over here!” chirps a familiar voice. His eyes twinkle with youth and enthusiasm. A spreading smile reveals his white teeth, and I can’t help but smile back.
“Hello Storm Boy. Long-time no see,” I say.
“Come have dinner with us! We are lighting a fire!”
Hideaway Tom waves to me from inside his dilapidated house. The tin roof, outlined with a dull browny rust, is gaping with holes. Tired bricks pop out of their place and the gloomy windows were already impossible to see through, even without the misty coating of condensation that painted them at dusk and dawn. I loved that house, especially when Hideaway Tom let me curl up next to the crackling fire when storms rolled outside and when rain hammered angrily at the walls. Storm Boy begins to rub two sticks together furiously. After a few deep breaths of effort, sparks soar and set the tepee of timber ablaze. The fire melts my energy and I slump against a thick, majestic tree. Birds ranging from deep crimson to azure blue chirp and dash through the branches, their colourful plumes illuminated by the rays of the setting sun. I feel so connected, spiritually, to the land around me. I have never felt so welcomed before. This is my family. This is my home.