By John Carey
My father and I sit at the end of the pier one blistering summer. The sea is aquamarine. He chastises me for knotting the line; as quick as anything, the scowl is replaced with a smirk. I look to see a little pufferfish on my reel and Dad claps my shoulder.
“There you go,” he says with a chuckle. My hands buckle under the weight.
We pull it in together. I see pride in his eyes. We guide it up. An Aborigine father and son jump into the water; the fish depart. Dad says something racist, but today I don’t care.
The last line told a complete story in itself. Good job, John.
Better a racist father than no father at all………?