There were three things I remember most clearly on that trip. The first, most often recounted, was the isolated spot just off the beach, north of Noosa Heads, under gum trees and a few steps from the water. This was where the campfire was set. Fish were sought just past the breaking waves – glistening silver whiting, and a disconcerted crab, soon released. I have been fishing twice, neither successfully nor willingly, so I rejoined the group at the fire, where scone dough was wrapped onto the ends of sticks and offered to the glowing embers.
The second was Dubliners, by James Joyce, hidden among the most generic selection of holiday reading. I’d never read Dubliners or Joyce before. Amazing.
The third was the card game, five hundred, which you taught us. You must have been in your twenties at that point. As tall as anyone, if not a little taller still. A bushy beard in fiery red to match your hair. I don’t know how much enjoyment you got from playing cards with your teenage cousins. I do know the enjoyment you gifted us, treating every hesitant play as a thoughtful masterstroke. Teaching us the joy of the game, not just the rules. Patient and generous with your time. Quick to smile, quick to laugh.
That is forever how I will remember you.