Competition

First Prize

Just a Jetty
by Julie Lynch

( Note: The word "jetty" is derived from the French 'jeteé́" meaning "something thrown out")

It was an old jetty

Solid as Gibraltar 's Rock still, but shabby and woody,
the grey, sun-bleached sleepers were dry and uneven,
toes were stubbed, thongs broken, bare feet struck splinters,
the odd loose rail or board was tied with wire or rope.
At the span where the top rail was missing completely
short people jostled for room to throw a line in
and kids bent hairpin-like over the bottom rail
to peer into the clear, rippled depths below.
Near the sea-end, to the left, a shelter shed squatted,
to the right six steps led down to a lower level
and at high tide, the water lapped it.
All comers elbowed in for the best spot
determinedly annexing their square of space,
then cast out far .

It was only an old jetty

Jutting companionably into the lovely bay,
as welcoming as any sprawling Queenslander verandah,
avuncular and genial, it enticed,
especially when the shadows yawned long and lazy
and the water shone crystal with the vibrancy of sunset.
Above, pelicans perched atop long-forgotten light poles.
Below, a briny shadowland, barnacles encrusted pillars,
The regular shlupp and slap of the water lapping at edges.
Underneath, land-end, a couple curled in the wide-striped shade,
washing prawns and crab-legs down with a crisp white.
It drew the land-locked.

It was just an ordinary jetty

A patchy parade of people ebbed and flowed,
The regulars were mainly the shrugged off and forgotten,
The blue-eyed, sunripe, string bean of a boy,
Jeans rolled up to just below his knees,
Paper-thin T -shirt flapping flag-like in the breeze,
He'd catch a few, some bigguns
but he'd always throw them back.
The burly Greek with his thick accent
"What for do you throw them back, boy?"
hands tossed up in mock-exasperation
eyes skyward, jocular and winking,
patiently lighting a cigarette.
"S'orright maite!" placatory,
untangling impossibly tangled lines
for impatient shat-off one-timers.
On his trike, the nervy, plump bloke
Daily he'd pedal out there to the end,
Wily terrier in a basket on the back,
offer the dog, scoffing leftover bait,
a drink from the drippy tap
beside the bloody, scale-spattered bench
where the fish were cleaned, then he'd settle in.
He never fished.
The dread-eyed youth, burning with turmoil,
who'd skateboard out as far as he could,
then run to the shelter shed, climb on the roof
and dive, dive over everyone
as they fished or watched or chatted.
From the shelter side of the jetty to the other
over all the cast lines and nets he'd plunge
landing cleanly in the forgiving water,
not once, but half a dozen times or more.

Shocked newcomers admired or admonished,
He'd hear the curses, "You bloody stupid bastard!"
and be itching for a fight that never got past insults,
There'd be a distraction, keen action in the depths
or a smart joke or a loud shout or a song,
Then they'd start the yarns and stories,
argue and banter for hours, between silences.
And he'd stay there, quietly, listening.

It was only an old, tired jetty

There were loners mostly, ambivalent about fishing,
who didn't much like company so, looking for solace,
they'd go for a stroll on the jetty
and catch themselves listening, or joining in about
the big one that kid caught on Friday night,
squid and crabs, moon phases and westerlies
darlings and divorces, aneurisms and accidents,
war and love and peace and hate
and all that lies between
and they'd laugh and pray and curse and cry
and all that lies between.

It was just an old, unsafe jetty

Useless, an eyesore
With its pelican shit, blood and fish guts
Its hard sharp barnacles
and soft slippery seaweed
Salt smell of sea air and fish
Its gaps and movements
Its groans and silences
Its aches and follies and obstinacies
Still solid as the Pillars of Hercules but
Somebody could have slipped or tripped or tumbled over
Somebody could have
Somebody could
So they had to do it, you know,
the right thing, so they
busily erected the "Notice of Intention"
and close off the jetty with their orange plastic barricades
and a thoughtless stamp and a more thoughtless signature
and, well, you can guess the rest -

The land-locked are land-locked;
the regulars, the newcomers, the one-timers
the young kid who just loved to fish, the jolly Greek, the bloke with his dog and his trike,
They've moved on to wherever one moves on to when old useless jetties have gone,
And the teenager with the wild, wild, eyes
What does he jump from now?

No slips, no spills,
no smoking, no jumping, no diving,
no fishing, no casting, no netting, no jigging
no swearing, no laughing, no crying, no talking, no more.

It was just a jetty