Tell me three things to take away from this little town, I ask the group. I’m  at the Kalbarri Pub. I arrived a couple of hours ago, and over the evening have managed to weasel my way into to a group of young gentlemen. Groups of women seem rare in this town. A young fisherman with a thick hand-woven beanie over his matted shoulder length dreadlocks tells me the first two stories.  His jumper says something about smashing pink, an “hilarious-to-his-crew” ode to both to the large pink snappers found off the coast of Western Australia, while not so subtly alluding to the more obvious. Double entendres at their finest.

His first story is unsurprisingly a fishing story, about being hooked by three-foot mackerel. The ocean beast had been caught on the boat, and while our dreadlocked friend was handling the large, twisted mass of line and hooks, the mackerel somehow became entangled. The mackerel reefed the bundle of fishing wire, dreadlocks lost control and, in that moment, a large hook of about 20cm long inserted itself into his waist, and he was dragged across the boat by the fish as its huge body slid off the side.  The fishee became the fisher. He lifted his shirt partway to reveal a tattoo in the shape of a hook covering significant scar tissue. There was nothing but excitement in his eyes, or maybe it was residual disbelief.

His second story was about a man, his uncle, a white indigenous fella, that was imprisoned in the eighties for shooting a cop. I did not hear much more about this story, however the sentiment was that policeman was not the friendly type, and the uncle was a target of much of his attentions and so sought to remedy the cause of inflammation.

The third story came near the end of the evening, where a young boy with peaked cap and a home-job hair cut decided to tell me a story in an effort to obtain my phone number, a thought which I entertained because I decided I liked that people were still asking for phone numbers, and not only on the swipe. This boy started his story much the same as dreadlocks, in the ocean. A glassy afternoon, the sun beginning its retreat into the horizon. Boy and his friend had been out spearfishing that day and were making their way back to shore. As is common in the area, the boat was surrounded by whales breaching. One whale had taken particular interest in their vessel, often coming up for a closer look. Boy and his friend followed with their eyes this curious beast. The whale came so close to the boat the boy reached out for it. The boy reached so far that he launched himself over the side of the boat and for at least three seconds is what I’m told, he held that whale’s dorsal fin and rode the beast down below surface. Mouth agape, I look to his friend, and with a smug look on his face he is nodding in complete agreement. The validations came after – “we weren’t sure if he’d come up, we thought he’d drowned”. I looked at Boy. Triumphantly, he said “Yup, I rode a whale” and handed me his phone. I entered my number, and he continued to compliment my freckles, my dimples, my smile. After a couple more Guinness and a dried up vape,  I picked up my things, thanked them all for the evening, and I never saw any of them ever again.

The ocean. For the people on this coastline, it is weaved into the fabric of their beings. They a less afraid of it than most. Salt-crusted, fish-scaled cowboys. I feel it, but I what if feel more is envy. To me, their way of living seems completely unachievable. I’m in complete awe at their submission to the ocean. Or maybe it is their mastering. This coastline is rugged, dangerous, unpredictable. The people that live by it, do just that – live by it. To take them away from it would be cruel, because while you and I have water coursing through our veins, they have salt in their blood.