Night Beach

NIGHT
BEACH

Kirsty
Eagar
grew
up
on
a
central
Queensland
cattle
property
and
spent
her
school

holidays
at
the
beach.
After
studying
economics,
she
worked
on
trading
desks
in
Sydney

and
London
before
changing
careers,
wanting
a
life
where
she
could
surf
every
day.
She

travelled
around
Australia
for
a
couple
of
years,
living
out
of
a
car,
worked
a
variety
of

jobs
and
began
writing
fiction.
Her
debut
novel,
Raw
Blue,
was
published
by
Penguin
in

2009,
and
won
the
Victorian
Premier’s
Literary
Award
for
Young
Adult
fiction.
Her

second
novel,
Saltwater
Vampires,
was
shortlisted
for
the
2011
New
South
Wales

Premier’s
Literary
Awards.
Kirsty
lives
with
her
husband
and
two
daughters
on

Sydney’s
northern
beaches.

www.kirstyeagar.com

Also
by
Kirsty
Eagar

Raw
Blue

Saltwater
Vampires

PENGUIN
BOOKS

Published
by
the
Penguin
Group

Penguin
Group
(Australia)

250
Camberwell
Road,
Camberwell,
Victoria
3124,
Australia
(a
division
of
Pearson

Australia
Group
Pty
Ltd)
Penguin
Group
(USA)
Inc.

375
Hudson
Street,
New
York,
New
York
10014,
USA
Penguin
Group
(Canada)

90
Eglinton
Avenue
East,
Suite
700,
Toronto,
Canada
ON
M4P
2Y3

(a
division
of
Pearson
Penguin
Canada
Inc.)
Penguin
Books
Ltd

80
Strand,
London
WC2R
0RL
England

Penguin
Ireland

25
St
Stephen’s
Green,
Dublin
2,
Ireland

(a
division
of
Penguin
Books
Ltd)

Penguin
Books
India
Pvt
Ltd

11
Community
Centre,
Panchsheel
Park,
New
Delhi
–
110
017,
India
Penguin
Group

(NZ)

67
Apollo
Drive,
Rosedale,
North
Shore
0632,
New
Zealand
(a
division
of
Pearson
New

Zealand
Ltd)

Penguin
Books
(South
Africa)
(Pty)
Ltd

24
Sturdee
Avenue,
Rosebank,
Johannesburg
2196,
South
Africa
Penguin
Books
Ltd,

Registered
Offices:
80
Strand,
London,
WC2R
0RL,
England
First
published
by
Penguin

Group
(Australia),
2012

2
4
6
8
10
9
7
5
3
1

Text
copyright
©
Kirsty
Eagar,
2012

The
moral
right
of
the
author
has
been
asserted.

All
rights
reserved.
Without
limiting
the
rights
under
copyright
reserved
above,
no
part

of
this
publication
may
be
reproduced,
stored
in
or
introduced
into
a
retrieval
system,

or
transmitted,
in
any
form
or
by
any
means
(electronic,
mechanical,
photocopying,

recording
or
otherwise),
without
the
prior
written
permission
of
both
the
copyright

owner
and
the
above
publisher
of
this
book.

Cover
and
text
design
by
Marina
Messiha
©
Penguin
Group
(Australia)
Cover

photograph
by
Erin
Mulvehill

Typeset
in
11.75/14.75pt
Granjon
by
Post
Pre-‐Press
Group,
Brisbane,
Queensland

Printed
and
bound
in
Australia
by
McPherson’s
Printing
Group,
Maryborough,
Victoria

National
Library
of
Australia

Cataloguing-‐in-‐Publication
data:

Eagar,
Kirsty,
1972–

Night
Beach
/
Kirsty
Eagar.

ISBN:
978
0
14
320655
2

A823.4

penguin.com.au

Extracts
from
‘The
Song
of
the
Beasts’,
‘Seaside’
and
‘The
Fish’
by
Rupert
Brooke
on
pp.

xx,
xx
and
xx
were
first
published
in
Rupert
Brooke,
Poems,
Sidgwick
&
Jackson,

London,
1911.

Quote
on
p.
X
from
Henry
David
Thoreau,
Walden;
or
Life
in
the
woods,
Ticknor
and

Fields,
Boston,
1854.

Quote
on
p.
xx
from
Brett
Whiteley
in
Difficult
Pleasure:
A
Portrait
of
Brett
Whiteley,

Feathersone
Productions,
1989,
reproduced
with
permission.

For
Charlee
Bean
and
Harper
Jay

Come
away,
come
away!

Ye
are
sober
and
dull
through
the
common
day

But
now
it
is
night!

It
is
shameful
night,
and
God
is
asleep
.
.
.

Rupert
Brooke

1

Winter

I
run
up
the
dunes
with
the
wind
howling
at
my
back,
my
ears
burning
from
its
bite.
It

carries
the
sting
of
snow
from
far-‐away
mountains
and
hooks
under
the
tail
of
my

surfboard
so
that
I
have
to
fight
to
keep
it
tucked
under
my
arm.
The
sand
is
crusted

over
from
the
rain
yesterday
and
crunches
under
my
feet,
and
I
keep
telling
myself
it’ll

be
warmer
in
the
water.
At
the
top
of
the
dunes
I
stop
long
enough
to
check
out
the

break.

It’s
crowded
out
there.
A
line
of
surfers
is
strung
out
like
a
necklace,
from
the
point,
all

the
way
down
to
the
south
bank.

The
swell
is
from
the
east;
each
wave
face
held
up
by
the
wind
for
an
impossibly
long

time;
each
crest
ripped
backwards
into
long
strands
of
spray.
One
day
I’m
going
to
paint

this
place.

Probably
from
this
very
spot.
But
only
when
I’m
good
enough
to
capture
whatever
it
is

that
makes
my
soul
open
up
every
time
I
see
it.

Storm
tides
have
cut
away
at
the
dunes,
leaving
an
abrupt
sandy
cliff
on
the
other
side.

People
further
down
the
beach
are
going
to
lose
their
houses
soon,
but
nobody
feels

sorry
for
them
because
they’re
rich
if
they
can
afford
beachfront.
As
if
the
ocean
cares

that
it’s
been
zoned
residential
–
what
the
sea
wants,
the
sea
shall
have.

I
head
towards
an
abandoned
couch
near
a
couple
of
old
fence
strainers
further
along

the
dunes.
Since
the
last
time
I
surfed
here
somebody’s
pulled
the
top
post
off
and
used

it
for
fuel.
It’s
resting
across
the
remains
of
a
fire,
a
big
charcoal
bite
taken
from
its

middle.
There’s
a
black
dog
lying
on
the
couch,
guarding
a
towel
and
a
set
of
keys,

staring
out
at
the
surf
like
she’s
worried.
When
she
sees
me,
her
tail
thumps
on
the

busted
vinyl,
and
she
licks
her
lips
and
wriggles,
but
she
stays
on
that
couch
like
she’s

been
nailed
to
it.
I
croon
nonsense
to
her
for
a
while,
running
my
hand
over
her
head,

feeling
the
silk
of
her
ears.
Seeing
her
makes
my
throat
tighten.

She
belongs
to
this
guy,
Greg
Hill,
an
ex-‐big-‐deal
from
the
eighties.
He
shapes
surfboards

under
his
own
brand,
but
hasn’t
made
it
with
that.
All
I
know
is
that
he’s
a
creep
to
that

dog.
I’ve
seen
him
talking
baby
rubbish
to
her,
holding
her
up
so
that
she
can
lick
him
all

over
the
lips
and
face.
But
when
he’s
standing,
she
cringes
beside
him,
tail
jammed
in

between
her
legs
like
she’s
waiting
to
be
kicked.

Greg
Hill
only
comes
here
when
it’s
good,
but
not
because
the
surf’s
on.
He
comes

because
it’s
crowded
and
he’s
a
psycho;
forever
mouthing
off
at
anyone
he
doesn’t

know;
getting
physical
if
someone
gets
in
his
way.
The
sneaky
things
he
does
are
worse,

though,
like
letting
down
the
tyres
on
cars
he
doesn’t
recognise
in
the
car
park.
And

there
are
things
Greg
Hill
is
supposed
to
have
done
that
are
worse
than
that.

I
join
the
straggly
line
of
surfers
making
their
way
up
the
beach,
all
of
us
walking
with

our
heads
turned
to
the
right.

It’s
amazing
how
the
place
can
reinvent
itself
overnight.
Dirty
suds
in
the
shore
break

are
the
only
evidence
left
of
the
howling
southerlies
that
were
scratching
things
apart

yesterday.

The
banks
have
been
scoured
out
and
the
left
is
barrelling.

Three
guys
take
off
on
the
same
wave,
and
the
inside
two
get
crunched,
making
me

wince.
Only
the
guy
playing
it
safe
out
wide
makes
it,
and
he
has
to
work
his
way
around

the
foam
ball
before
he
can
do
a
couple
of
turns
on
the
face.

The
deep
is
that
solid
dark
blue
you
get
when
the
water
temperature
is
low.
So
far,
this

is
supposed
to
have
been
the
coldest
July
for
sixty-‐four
years
or
something
–
not
that
I’d

know.
I’ve
only
seen
seventeen
winters
and
I
haven’t
really
been
a
fan
of
any
of
them.

Give
me
summer.
Give
me
dry,
hot
northerlies
and
green
water
that’s
oily
with

sunscreen
and
sweat.
Summer
makes
me
feel
sexy.
Although
the
sad
truth
is,
I
don’t

know
much
about
sex.

The
recent
rain
has
swollen
the
lagoon,
and
frothy
brown
run-‐off
is
gushing
into
the

ocean.
I
stop
there
among
the
other
surfers,
throwing
my
board
onto
the
sand.
This
spot

is
like
a
launch
pad,
everybody
zipping
up
their
wetsuits,
stretching.

I
fasten
my
leg-‐rope,
looking
across
the
lagoon
mouth
at
the
tidal
pool
and
headland

reserve
on
the
other
side.
Something’s
different,
but
it
takes
me
a
while
to
work
out

what:
the
highly
original
‘LOCALS
ONLY!!!’
is
gone.
It
was
slashed
in
black
spray
across

the
face
of
the
concrete
retaining
wall
that
gives
this
break
its
highly
original
name: