The burn across the inside of my left index finger turns bright red and shines with smoothness where the crease of hard skin used to be. I’ve been taught to let the line run through my hand before giving it a big yank back.  

The line runs again; my heart beats with excitement. The game of tug-of-war begins. Saltwater stings my finger burn, but the adrenaline is too good to care. I’ve got him this time. Dad smiles with his whole face: his eyes light up, big cheek dimples appear, and his eyebrows shoot up, up his forehead, just as another big, juicy bream is thrown proudly into the bucket with a thump. 

Most weekends are spent like this, Dad and I fishing in the creeks around Darwin. Sometimes Nanna comes along, but usually, it’s just the two of us. Dad knows every inch of these creeks like the wrinkles on the back of his hands. The water surges up and down the creek as the tides change, but today, the water changes too quickly. It rushes in fast, faster than we expect. As water surrounds our feet and reaches our ankles, a heavy silence from Dad makes me realise this was not part of the plan. We weren’t supposed to stay out here this long. 

By the time the water creeps up to the mud flats behind us and the mudskippers disappear, we are packed up and moving quickly out of Ludmilla creek. Our footprints, created on the way in, have all but disappeared. 

As we round the bend of the creek and the mangroves thin out, the mudflat we crossed earlier to reach the East Point boat ramp is now surging with water. 

There’s no way I can cross, I say. One, it would go past my belly button; two, this is croc territory. 

Without another thought, Dad shoves the tackle box into the bucket with the hand lines. He tells me to put on the backpack and climb onto his back.  

This is crazy, I think. We won’t make it back.  

But I do what he says. Cold water rushes against my legs and the darkness conceals what lurks beneath the muddy water. Every second feels like a minute and I realise I’m holding my breath when something grabs my thigh. All the air rushes out with the realisation that this is the end, the croc has struck, and tomorrow’s papers read that father and daughter were an easy meal.  

Dad tosses what appears to be a drifting branch to the side and I breathe out again. We’re halfway across the creek now, the water just below his ribs. I close my eyes and hold on tight. 

~~

The scar on my finger has long faded when I share this story with my children. Though you are no longer here to protect me from crocs or flooding waters, and life continues to change like the tides, the memories of you still burn brightly within the walls of my heart.