Surfing for Wayan: & other stories by Steve Tolbert

Author:Steve Tolbert [Tolbert, Steve]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ginninderra Press

After a small smile pause, Wes continues, ‘Over the drop zone I’d check the wing ducts were open before turnin’ the defoliant release valve on, and for the next three minutes our cargo sprayed out, trailin’ the wings in long, wavy banners, before fadin’ and driftin’ down.’ He drops his head again and gives a little smile, like maybe he feels he’s said too much. ‘Anyway, my wife’s been after me for years ta come back over here. Somethin’ about purgin’ grief and arrivin’ at some sort of resolution.’ His eyes meet mine. ‘Ya know much about that?’

I feel complimented. His confiding openness makes me feel older than I am. ‘I’ve heard people talk about it.’

‘I can tell ya, son, the difference between talkin’ about it and doin’ it is considerable.’

We move on and minutes later arrive at a large pit with four earthen steps leading steeply down to the start of a tunnel tucked away in one corner.

The guide calls out, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to small part of Cu Chi tunnels. Below this ground are two sections for tourists to go through. Small lights are on floor so you see where you go. Tunnels are one-metre high, eighty centimetres wide. For people who not want to go in tunnels, there is American M-48 tank that Viet Cong destroy with landmine up the track. It is where we all meet in fifteen minutes.’ He does another sweeping arm movement, inviting people into the tunnel.

No one moves immediately. People look around to see who’ll volunteer to go in first. Finally, two couples descend, get down on all fours and scuttle into the tunnel. A few more follow. Another minute passes before Wes sets off for the pit – perhaps forgetting he’s got his daypack on – and descends. Surprisingly, the Vietnamese girl hobbles over to the steps after him. She presses her hands against the pit wall and descends too – one crab-like step at a time. No way am I not going to follow her. I head down.

Even on his hands and knees, Wes has to lower his head to clear the opening. No sooner is he in than the Vietnamese girl drops down and, dragging her artificial leg behind her, disappears inside. I follow.

On our left, Christmas-size red and yellow lights line the dun-coloured floor. But Wes is like a third wall blocking what’s up ahead. A few metres in, the girl’s leg starts to squeak.

‘Anybody back there?’ Wes asks, having to know there was.

‘Yes,’ the girl and I answer together.

‘That squeakin’ noise isn’t the floor protestin’, is it?

The girl tells him what it is. ‘I forgot to oil it before coming in,’ she adds.

Both Wes and I laugh, appreciating her ability to joke about herself.

‘That’s a comfort, anyway,’ Wes says. ‘That it isn’t the floor squeakin’, I mean.’

We crawl on, the tunnel sweating moisture, and after a while Wes’s daypack starts scraping the tunnel. ‘I’m sweatin’ a river in here,’ he admits. ‘I brought along a water

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