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- Колин Маккалоу
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But
it
was
quite
different
,
a
whispering
slide
in
glassy
waters
,
and
she
was
twenty-six
,
not
ten
.
The
air
was
between
cyclones
,
the
sea
was
exhausted
;
though
it
was
only
midday
Meggie
put
her
head
down
and
slept
dreamlessly
until
the
steward
woke
her
at
six
the
next
morning
with
a
cup
of
tea
and
a
plate
of
plain
sweet
biscuits
.
Up
on
deck
was
a
new
Australia
,
different
again
.
In
a
high
clear
sky
,
delicately
colorless
,
a
pink
and
pearly
glow
suffused
slowly
upward
from
the
eastern
rim
of
the
ocean
until
the
sun
stood
above
the
horizon
and
the
light
lost
its
neonatal
redness
,
became
day
.
The
ship
was
slithering
soundlessly
through
water
which
had
no
taint
,
so
translucent
over
the
side
that
one
could
look
fathoms
down
to
grottoes
of
purple
and
see
the
forms
of
vivid
fish
flashing
by
.
In
distant
vistas
the
sea
was
a
greenish-hued
aquamarine
,
splotched
with
wine-dark
stains
where
weed
or
coral
covered
the
floor
,
and
on
all
sides
it
seemed
islands
with
palmy
shores
of
brilliant
white
sand
just
grew
out
of
it
spontaneously
like
crystals
in
silica
--
jungle-clad
and
mountainous
islands
or
flat
,
bushy
islands
not
much
higher
than
the
water
.
"
The
flat
ones
are
the
true
coral
islands
,
"
explained
a
crewman
.
"
If
they
're
ring-shaped
and
enclose
a
lagoon
they
're
called
atolls
,
but
if
they
're
just
a
lump
of
reef
risen
above
the
sea
they
're
called
cays
.
The
hilly
islands
are
the
tops
of
mountains
,
but
they
're
still
surrounded
by
coral
reefs
,
and
they
have
lagoons
.
"
"
Where
's
Matlock
Island
?
"
Meggie
asked
.
He
looked
at
her
curiously
;
a
lone
woman
going
on
holiday
to
a
honeymoon
island
like
Matlock
was
a
contradiction
in
terms
.
"
We
're
sailing
down
Whitsunday
Passage
now
,
then
we
head
out
to
the
Pacific
edge
of
the
reef
.
Matlock
's
ocean
side
is
pounded
by
the
big
breakers
that
come
in
for
a
hundred
miles
off
the
deep
Pacific
like
express
trains
,
roaring
so
you
ca
n't
hear
yourself
think
.
Can
you
imagine
riding
the
same
wave
for
a
hundred
miles
?
"
He
sighed
wistfully
.
"
We
'll
be
at
Matlock
before
sundown
,
madam
.
"
And
an
hour
before
sundown
the
little
ship
heaved
its
way
through
the
backwash
of
the
surf
whose
spume
rose
like
a
towering
misty
wall
into
the
eastern
sky
.
A
jetty
on
spindling
piles
doddered
literally
half
a
mile
out
across
the
reef
exposed
by
low
tide
,
behind
it
a
high
,
craggy
coastline
which
did
n't
fit
in
with
Meggie
's
expectations
of
tropical
splendor
.
An
elderly
man
stood
waiting
,
helped
her
from
ship
to
jetty
,
and
took
her
cases
from
a
crewman
.
"
How
d'you
do
,
Mrs.
O'Neill
,
"
he
greeted
her
.
"
I
'm
Rob
Walter
.
Hope
your
husband
gets
the
chance
to
come
after
all
.
Not
too
much
company
on
Matlock
this
time
of
year
;
it
's
really
a
winter
resort
.
"
They
walked
together
down
the
uneasy
planking
,
the
exposed
coral
molten
in
the
dying
sun
and
the
fearsome
sea
a
reflected
,
tumultuous
glory
of
crimson
foam
.
