Love in Marlui

CHAPTER ONE

The blistering sun berates down on my back, stretching its heat from the back of my neck to my sand-dug feet, to my eyes, that squint against the burn of the tangy sea breeze, I huff at the small pain even the most beautiful of paradise can onslaught. A cooler wind drifting from across the ocean tickles my arms and pushes salt-dried hair into my face.

So peaceful.

Only a short flight from my homeland had brought me to this serenity. Tasmania's dry winds are far from imaginable as I sink my hands deep into the hot sand. I had left a lot back in that small town. My school, my family, my friends, everything remained there. I'm no Julia Roberts; this is not Eat Pray Love don't get me wrong. This is more...Eat, Party, Sleep, with an occasional sweaty encounter in a pub, my body pushed against a stranger.

Across the shiny water, a small boat disrupts the warm blue surface, and a blurry shape rises from its helm.

"Marlee! Watcha doing you duffa?" The figure calls out, guiding the boat closer.

I stand, dusting the sand off my thighs, and approach the slapping shore that licks at my feet.

"Can't a girl suntan in peace anymore? Pale skin won't help me here," I laugh and shield my eyes against the sun's glare, "Or should I sport the red look you've got there Baz."

Sure enough, as the boat edges to the shore, Baz's bright red skin comes into view. He stretches it back into a smile, revealing crooked yellowing teeth.

"Bah, you sound like the missus. Constant nagging, I tell you."

"Rightly so, you'll be beyond a tomato soon."

Baz swings himself off the boat and grapples for a rope that he pulls over his shoulder to drag the vessel onto the sand. The waves splash at my legs as I jog over to help him. Baz is a local to Marlui who spends his days fishing off the shore. The people are close here – the locals I mean – and always keep each other in their sights. That's part of the reason why I love this island so much. You always have a warm hand to support you.

I didn't have that luxury back home. No, it had been a life of cold shoulders and empty hearts when you needed them the most. My presence here was supposed to be a short girl's trip – a break from university – but after my friends had ghosted me during the planning and ultimately dropped out, I had found my own life here. No one back home had cared enough to call me back home after the first six months had passed.

With the boat successfully moored, I flop back down onto the sand. Baz unscrews the lid of a canteen and greedily chugs it down.

"I hear there's a bunch of new fella's coming in. Staying down at Ola's."

This catches my attention. It's the off season now so not many tourists come in, and certainly none that Ola would allow within her walls. Her rooms are reserved for only those who know how to find it. Those who must have been told about it, unless they would have walked past its camouflaged door like the majority of tourists do.

"Any idea who they are? It's the wrong time of year for backpackers and no rich folk are stupid enough to come before the storms," I ask, tilting my head.

"I agree. The missus reckons it's a family member who's left and come back," he scratches his chin, "none that I remember though, most are too old to be travelling still."

A small part of me yearns for someone my age. It's not that I don't love the people here, but sometimes it does feel quite lonely when you're 30 to 40 years younger than everyone else and don't have children to keep you busy. At 21 years old I have successfully brought down the average age of the island, or as Ola likes to say, "keep it fresh".