Beach Walker – Chapter 3

Them Ol' Beachwalkin' Blues

I stood on the crest of the dune. The sea before me was seal grey under an iron sky. White rows of surf rolled and crashed.

The previous day, the onshore gale had been strong enough to keep me away from the Beach. Overnight, it had subsided to a blustery breeze. Far to the west, beyond the Bluff, the cloud blanket was torn to reveal ragged scraps of blue.

My legs yearned for a good stretch after a day of unaccustomed idleness. I plucked off my thongs, skipped down the weathered wooden steps like an eager girl and headed for the water.

There were quantities of seaweed on the formerly pristine sand. Not just clumps here and there, but a wide, rubbery carpet extending into the shallows as a brown soup. Underfoot it felt tepid and slippery – like walking on the backs of live fish. Yuck. I picked my way on the balls of my feet. This was not the walk I’d been looking forward to.

Eventually I was through the weed. The air was deliciously tangy with the aroma of kelp. The tickle in my sinuses was so intense, it was almost unbearable.

I noticed that there were transparent blobs everywhere: sea snail egg cases, I’d been told by a local. I had no desire to squish baby snails underfoot, so I walked around them, into the shallow water.

Some of the blobs were not sausage-shaped but frilly, with an exquisite blue tinge. I stopped to admire one, wondering what it was. Another sort of egg case?

As I splashed on through the shallows, I became aware of an odd sensation in my feet and ankles. It started off as a hot prickle, then became a pain. A sharp, burning pain. Within moments, my skin felt on fire.

I tried to walk up the beach away from the water. It just made the pain worse, every step an agony. I gave up, plumped down on the wet sand, examined my feet.

Beads were rising: a web of welts. My feet throbbed. What the hell had I stepped on? Fear gripped my throat. I’d been bitten by a lethal blue-ringed octopus concealed amidst the weed. No antidote to the venom. I was going to die here, alone.

Desperate, I looked around. Nobody on the empty beach. My phone back home, useless on the kitchen bench. No last chance to tell my sons, my babies, how much I loved them, how proud I was, how sorry …

A lone, stooped figure in the distance. I waved my arms, wailed.

The figure straightened, looked around for the source of the noise. Located me, started to jog. As it came nearer, I realised it was Mr Strange Peculiar.

‘Well that’s great. I’m dying on the shore and the only “help” is a weirdo ex-crim. Probably a psychopathic rapist and serial killer.’ I don’t know if those were my exact thoughts, but that’s the gist.

He was upon me. The predator ready to pounce on his prey. I peered up glumly at my nemesis, silhouetted against the light.

Rather than gleeful malice, his features were drawn into a frown of concern.

‘Stung?’

He squatted. I sobbed something probably incoherent, went to rub at my burning feet.

Quick as a snake his hand slapped mine away. ‘Don’t touch.’

‘Don’t you hit me!’ I might have been doomed and in agony, but I wasn’t going to go meekly.

‘Sorry, sorry. Stinging cells still active,’ he explained. ‘Touch ’em and more’ll fire.’ He looked around, searching for something.

‘Am I going to die?’

His frown softened into a gentle smile. ‘No, you’re not going to die. Just a bluebottle sting. Hurts for a while, but you’ll be fine. Don’t worry. But we got to get the tentacles off you.’

‘Tentacles? I can’t see any.’ I stared anxiously at my feet, half expecting octopus-like suckered arms to appear.

‘You won’t. Transparent little buggers, fine as a hair … I’ll get some kelp.’ He stood up, poked around in a nearby mound of weed and found what he was looking for.

Kneeling at my feet, he peered, scraped delicately with the rubbery blade, wiped it carefully on the sand, repeated. Again and again, lifting each foot firmly but gently by the heel. His fingers were strong and rough, but he used them with the delicacy and focus of a surgeon.

‘Got yourself stung good and proper. Just little critters, but the tentacles can be ten metres long.’

He wasn’t as old as I’d thought. Maybe younger than me. Shoulder-length, greasy brown hair protruding from under that godawful hat.

‘Jellyfish?’

‘No. Physalia utriculus. Colony of polyps. Four species in symbiosis. Marvel of nature, really.’

‘Yeah, great.’

He chuckled, drawing back his lips to reveal bad teeth. ‘Unless you step on ’em. Hurts like bloody hell.’

‘Tell me about it.’

He reached for the canvas bag he’d thrown down on the sand. Rummaged and extracted a small plastic bottle with a tea-coloured liquid.

‘Vinegar,’ he explained. ‘It’ll help with the pain, disinfect the wounds.’

He carefully squirted the vinegar over the welts. I could soon feel the burning subside.

‘Better?’

‘A bit, thank you … ?’

‘Leonard.’

‘Grace. Pleased to meet you, Len.’ I hadn’t meant to shorten his name; it just slipped out in my relief and gratitude.

He shook my offered hand. ‘People I don’t like call me Len, Lenny, Lenno,’ he said, deadpan. ‘You can call me Leonard, Grace.’

‘Noted, Leonard.’

He winked, stood up. ‘Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.’

He pulled me to my feet – surprisingly strong for such a slight man – and offered me his arm. Patiently he helped me to hobble up the beach to the warm, dry sand at the base of the dune, sat me down where there was respite from the wind.

‘Cold?’

‘No, I’m fine,’ I lied. I was freezing in my shorts and sleeveless top.

‘Bullshit,’ he grunted. ‘You’re shivering.’ He rummaged again, pulled out a flannel shirt, ‘Here.’ He draped it gently around my shoulders.

‘Pain’ll wear off in an hour or so. Don’t try to walk until then – makes it worse.’

I nodded.

‘I’ll be keeping an eye on you. When you’re ready, I’ll help you up the steps.’

‘What will you do in the meantime?’

‘Work to do.’

‘Work?’

‘See you in a bit.’ He slung the bag over his shoulder and padded off down the beach.

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Next week in Beach Walker:

Chapter 4: Letting Off Steam

Grace decides not to get further involved with Leonard … but that isn’t how things work out.