The Rip

They say nothing bad ever happens on the island. Only 20 minutes by ferry from the mainland. This popular chunk of limestone sand and reef has a way of transporting visitors back in time. Reminding many of their idyllic childhood spent here, burning all day in the sun with the freedom to roam until dusk. They say they've never seen a bad thing happen here. I say they're wrong. The balcony groans with too many adults. A trestle table overflowing with stale crisps, empty glasses, an open bottle of rosé, and a lone peanut slowly drowning in the hummus. We're all buzzing because it's that kind of vibe. Holiday sunsets, endless villas strewn along the ocean crammed with loving families, comfortably drunk adults and frying seafood. Someone inside starts singing Whitney Houston, and a group of Penny's friends are gathering like they do, shoulder to shoulder, blasting out the song, getting the words all wrong. I'd hate to clean this villa in the morning with a hangover. I'm leaning over the railing, wondering how many more kilograms it would take before this balcony collapses beneath us all into the sand. I don't want to join the singing or the conversation about boats and fuel prices. My vision is blurred, hazy, and for the first time since I arrived, I finally feel less paranoid. I'm warm, even in my slip dress and bare feet. Taking another sip of tepid wine, I then stop. On the beach, under a mauve sky, some of our party have formed a teenage type bonfire circle with beers, towels, and scattered snacks. They haven't left their clique since the sunset 30 minutes ago. Their voices echo over the still water. And Penny is there, with my husband, Scott. She's standing and storming off as though she's annoyed with him. And he's scrambling to his feet to chase her. Chase her? I can't hear what she's saying because she's whispering. And I can't hear my husband either. But then someone bumps my shoulder. It's Penny's brother, Brett, and he doesn't look good. He sways, holds in a burp, then speaks with beer breath, saying, how many kids are supposed to be in the villa next door? Four, I tell him, turning back to the beach where Penny and my husband have disappeared, probably up the sidesteps. And someone on the beach laughs as a dinghy drones by. And Whitney Houston stops singing. And then Brett calls out to everyone around me, the party has to stop. He's been to check on the kids next door. Next door where they watch movies with bleary eyes, high on sugar, the oldest looking after the youngest. It's the safest island, they said. Nothing bad ever happens. And then Brett tells us one of them is missing. One of the kids is missing. And no one saw a thing. There are dangers on Rottnest Island. But we don't tell the kids that. Our villa overlooks the bay with a balcony hanging over sharp spinifex grass that detaches in the sea breeze. Their needles are covered in sand, ready to prick your bare souls. You have to pull them out and limp quickly away, especially in October, when the dugite snakes start mating and hide shyly in the bushes. Blue bottle jellyfish wash up on the shores. Their pearly cobalt crowns, able to pop and smother a toe with a stinging rash. Sharks have been spotted haunting the reef off the beach at Thompson Bay. Rays glide under dinghies, matching their girth. The meeting of currents, the swirling offshore rips, suck the unwary out to sea. If the kids knew about this, knew about the dangers, they'd never leave us alone. There's nowhere else in the world you can leave your kids unsupervised, mom and dad used to say. This was code for, we can drink all the wine we want, neglect the kids, and no one will bat an eyelid. It's simply island tradition. Kids cycle off exploring, and parents gift them $5 to buy all the sugar they need to keep them quiet, entertained, while the parents grow louder, entertaining themselves. Our villa is the most sought after accommodation on the island. In the afternoons, the sun blasts half the balcony, so you can choose whether to toast your legs or cool them off in the shade. The balcony faces the ferry jetty. Every so often, the ferry arrives, disgorging hordes of noisy tourists and regular visitors who ride around the island like they own the place.