Gone Fishing Read Online Free

spindly leaves of the casuarinas seem plumper after a week of heavy summer rain, it’s still too early for the January holiday crowd and the chaotic early-morning offshore commuter dash is well and truly over. A couple of elderly tourists are installed at one of the picnic tables, sipping café coffee out of cardboard cups. On the foreshore, a lone dog walker struggles with a sleek and self-satisfied mutt the colour of toffee, tugging on a lead. A cyclist zooms in and out of sight. Two joggers flash by. Otherwise there’s no one. It’s almost nine o’clock and Sam is virtually on his own.
    He fronts up to the community announcement blackboard. Skips past a few wind-chewed, mostly out-of-date notices ( House to Rent. Moving Sale . Reliable tinny – Reasonable price . Babysitter available . House cleaners wanted. ). Hones in on screaming red letters plastered on a poster-size sheet of paper: BRIDGE. RESORT. SPA . And shouting loudest: EXCLUSIVE DEVELOPMENT!
    Sam swears. Moves closer to read it carefully, paying particular attention to the small print where, he’s learned through painful experience, the real information is found. The notice has the stink of authenticity. This isn’t some die-hard Island prankster gristing the local rumour mill to see how far it runs before someone susses it’s a joke. Some anonymous bastard is serious about trashing Cutter Island.
    A bridge from the mainland to the west-facing foreshore of Cutter Island, Sam thinks darkly, feeling a twist in his gut. All this bloody beauty of place and people with fine instincts and some philistine plans to blitz the golden sand, turquoise waters and a fresh-water creek that rushes over mossy boulders from the knobbly peak of the Island for . . . what? A bridge and a freaking resort. As far as he’s concerned, the world is already brimming with resorts. Lined up next to each other so even if you scratch around you can never find the paradise that titillated the developers in the first place. Not that he’s ever been a paying guest in one, of course. But he’s seen pictures of tropical destinations where blank-faced high-rise shockers – with a couple of token palms at the front – are lined up closer than a Briny Café knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin. The palms replaced, no doubt, after the originals were ripped out. They don’t need a resort ’cause no right-thinking Islander wants an influx of visitors pushing Island resources to breaking point. And who needs a bridge when ninety per cent of the pleasure of going home comes from crossing the water in a boat with the wind in your face and your lungs full of sharp, salty air?
    â€˜Sam! Where ya bin? Bin waitin’ on the barge. Me and Longfella. We got a job on, remember? The steel beams, Sam. They’re due in Blue Swimmer Bay. Doc’s house. Remember?’ Jimmy, the Mary Kay ’s sartorially colourful deckhand (lime-green shorts and a purple T-shirt today), heads towards him at a cracking pace, his fluffy black-and-white Border Collie pup close on his heels.
    â€˜They’re going to build a bridge, mate. A bridge and a bloody resort on Cutter Island. It’s enough to make a grown man weep.’
    Jimmy skates to a stop, dances and prances with anxiety. ‘Ya sure?’ His sunburned face (clashing puce against the purple) is earnest.
    â€˜The bulldozers first,’ Sam says, his emotions running hot. ‘Then landfill. The contours of the site will be moulded to some wanky architect’s vision of nirvana.’
    â€˜Ya sure?’
    On a roll, Sam continues: ‘The beach will be lined with glass and steel. Then the racket of jet skis and high-powered boats dragging screaming water skiers . . .’
    â€˜What about the turtles, Sam? And the stingrays?’
    â€˜And the jellyfish? The constellations of starfish?’ The kid nods violently, in full agreement. Sam, angry now: