Green waves flow like cotton silk along my rotting shoreline. This is where bodies come to decompose and where I repair. Children prattle and frolic only to become headlines. Widows come to weep before gawking into my alluring green waves. Word has spread that my waters lure them closer into the current, until they’re never seen again.  

    A man and his wife lay a Sea World towel upon my dunes. The man takes off his pink polo and strips to his elastic briefs. Wife adorns a torn flower bikini. Whitefellas sit on my dunes, mock my land with their corporate logos, waste my time with their shameless lust. I blow strong sand clouds from the tideline. 

    Only brings them closer, shielding their eyes with an embrace. I warn them by releasing an odour from my waters. Stench of sewage and stagnant salt. They suck each other’s lips. She takes off her bikini top. He grabs her breasts. They tackle back and forth like children roughhousing in a game of rugby, knocking empty KFC bags towards my shore. 

    I lure her, make my stench an aroma, of fresh seafood, of Sydney harbour in the summer. The woman gallops to the water, kicking and swirling the salt by her feet. She lifts her arms, her stretching breasts exposed to ocean spray. She dives headfirst into my wave.

    The man doesn’t follow, not immediately. He falls back on the Sea World towel. Gawks at the perfect sky, looking for missing clouds and waiting for the shore to sweep his blistered toes. He opens a Pepsi can, drinks the whole thing before noticing his missing wife. Doesn’t hear her playful teasing, splashing waves or drowned screams echoing through the gales. 

    He rises, stands atop the dunes, sand clouds passing underfoot, screaming her name. No answer. Approaches my waters. I splash large waves against him, but he doesn’t surrender. My gales spray chips of spit into his eyes, my waves pound harder and faster. Still, he punches through my green waters, scouring the muddy sand with his toes. Trekking deeper, deeper, until… 

    He dives, trying to find any trace of his wife. A bra, knickers, a strain of orange hair. His lungs bulge, bubbles dissolving around his clogged windpipe. His limp corpse sinks to the bottom and their bodies liquify amongst bleached coral, their backs against each other as they become part of me.