Cockatoos in the Mangroves

Compassion On the afternoon before going fishing we would often gather around the small dirt fire pit for burning leaves in my Grandmother's back yard. We would stand in a circle facing the fire, close our eyes and my Grandmother would speak one of our old Indigenous languages into the flames. The more our language was thrown into the fire, the higher the flames danced. I felt the low sea breeze circle us as my Grandmother's voice called on our ancestors to guide us to a spot of plentiful fish and a safe return. Upon recollection ourselves she would raise her hands to the skies and tell us which way the wind was blowing and the current would be running, where we should go fishing and the type of fish that we were likely to catch. The silence that began at the fire remained with us as we packed the dinghy with the fishing gear and prepared the food ready for the morning - even when we had readied ourselves for bed there was still no talking - we would bid each other good night with a nod and a hug. As the kookaburras welcomed the shades of pink and orange that penetrated the early morning sky, we would pile into the car, with the dinghy on the back, and head down to the beach and quietly maneuver the car through the mangroves to the muddied boat ramp careful not to disturb the surrounding life. For we knew if we woke the mangrove life then everyone would know what we were doing, and it could scare the fish. There was rarely a word spoken. The boat would hum across the still crystal-clear waters of the Torres Strait careful not to disturb the fish, similar to someone sliding across a glass ceiling. When we arrived at the fishing spot, we would all take turns to ensure that we were exactly aligned to drop anchor where my Grandmother had said the previous afternoon. Agreement was via a nod of the head and slight closing of the eyes. While we readied our fishing lines, one of my aunts would lean over the side of the boat and place her palm flat on the surface of the water and say a quiet offering in language. The fishing would commence as each person was ready. The first small fish caught was usually filleted, dipped in lemon and sprinkled with salt and enjoyed for breakfast. Getting the timing right, as my Grandmother had suggested, was evident in how much fish we did or did not catch. After about an hour of fishing, the air would fill with the voices of one of my aunts who wanted to discuss or share something that was on her mind. Then about an hour later, another aunt would respond and this one conversation on the same topic would continue the whole length of the time spent fishing. Nobody spoke at once and if you could not contribute to the topic being discussed, you just sat, listened and felt the rhythm of the waves as they lapped the side of the boat, as though in union with the mood of the conversation. We knew the fishing was finished by the reds, yellows and oranges of the sun dancing their evening glows across the sky and the slight shift in the surface area of the sea. Upon leaving the fishing spot, one of my aunts would lean over the side of the boat and lay her palm flat on the surface of the water and give thanks in language. Each person always gave a fish, and any remaining bait, back to the ocean. The responsibility of offering thanks was always to the eldest and should she be unable to do so, the responsibility went down the line. The cleaning of the equipment and the fish was again done in silence. There was nothing to say. The fish was shared, and hugs were given with the assurance that what was discussed during fishing remained with the fishing.