WEATHER STATIONS

sand and swallowed them.
‘Home?’ He looked bewildered.
‘Yeah. Home, Jack. We should head back now.’
At that moment something fell into place for him. A look of confusion shifted to one
of calmness, followed by a slight smile of recognition. He looked down at my open hand
as if it were an unintended insult to his independence.
He brushed me aside. ‘Come on, son. I’ve got something to show you.’
Winter is coming and Jack has not walked on the beach with me since that morning.
A little over a week ago I was on the track and heading for the beach when a storm hit. As
the heavy rain soaked through my woollen jumper and baggy track pants I thought about
retreating, or at least returning to the house for a raincoat. I briefly stopped on the track
before deciding to go on.
The low sky over the horizon was bruised with heavy weather, while the rain, driven
by a southerly gale, stung my face. Although there seemed little point in bothering to
remove the binoculars from their case, I took them out anyway and went through the
exercise of searching the horizon.
I firstly spotted a cargo ship, overladen with multi-coloured containers. The ship was
being thrown around in the white-capped sea like a Lego model. It was not until I lifted
the glasses to the sky that I caught a glimpse of a shadow against a cloud, and then the
dark smudge of a bird.
Although it was only a brief sighting I immediately convinced myself that I had just
seen the Tern. It was in my sights for just a few seconds before disappearing. Perched on
the ridge, I scanned the horizon for another half hour or more, but did not see the bird
again.
By the time I got back to the house I was wet to the bone and shivering with cold.
I threw my clothes in the washer, took a shower and went over the thoughts that had
occupied me on the walk home from the beach. After dressing I left the house and ran
around the hedge to Jack’s front yard. I knocked at his door several times but he did
not answer. I went back to the house and made myself a cup of tea. I then went into the
lounge room and flipped through my c.d. collection until I found some writing music —
Iron and Wine.
I sat at my desk surrounded by the musty smell of tractor books and the oiled
surfaces of metal and wrote the following words to myself:
The Tern has a sharp blood-red beak and wears a black hood with a white cap. When the Tern
grazes in the grasslands and low dunes where it prepares its nest its true beauty remains hidden
beneath a covering of dull grey feathers. But when it lifts its wings in flight, particularly when
gliding, which it does to conserve energy, the bird exposes its translucent mix of rich colouring. The
Tern is a bird of strength and beauty.
54 WEATHER STATIONS: WRITING CLIMATE CHANGE