I’m leaning over the side of the runabout, watching, fascinated, as multi-sized reef fish fight to feed on the vomit spreading in technicolour slo-mo.
My brother and uncle refuse to take me back to shore, so once the vomit’s been consumed and the fish disappear, I have nothing to do but watch my skin burn, try not to throw up and fume about how much I hate it here.
It’s 1977, I am 11 and my extended family has rented Poole Island in north Queensland for a week of the Christmas holidays.
“The…
