man the jetty

Roy and me had the day to waste, the boat was old and worn, majestic in its defiance of the elements should have sank many years ago. Cruising gently up the wonnie river , setting wake in the cloudy brown filth of water. This stretch lined like a suburban street with old weatherboard shanty houses slowly inching their way closer to damnation as the weathered river banks recede. Old tom Phillips sat on a tree stump near the turner street jetty simultaneously flinging abuse and advice inexcusably up the empty valley for anyone to here, and I assume in his mind everyone knew to put his words to good use. We call him old tom but he is only 43 but years of huffing paint thinners had aged his face and faded his mind. It was easier to pretend he had lived a full life and was now enjoying the rewards of dementia than to starkly admit it was all self destructive narcissism that lead him down the rabbit hole chasing a buzz. We would endure a rant, smiling and waving like idiots as we slowly chugged past, our boats wash causing old tom atop the rotting wooden boards to rock uneasily as the jetty went to and fro with the waters motions. The only good thing about seeing tom on the river was you knew he was still breathing. I dread the day this river gets peaceful.