The view’s not as good from my room in the Barrabool Bupa but I have a patch of garden, a slither of sky and I’m still close to my beloved Barwon. It helps that I can wheel myself down to the river—that’s the upside. 

‘You’re as strong as any man half your age, Joe,’ doc had said. He’d said my ticker was the only worry; it was eighty and slowing down! I’d said I’d be happy as Larry if I croaked it on my kayak, just hoped it wouldn’t flip. I loved being on the river not in it.

I’d been chuckling about that very conversation as I paddled toward them. It was early for a pram ensemble. And cold. Damn cold. There was a baby bundled up in mum’s arms, and a toddler chasing a duck. I could feel it in my bones and slowed down. Sure enough the little one launched into the water. The river’s deep if you’re only a few feet tall. Mum was screaming, baby was wailing, little one was sinking. I made my first wet exit in years. I was oh so cold and heavy. It was dark down there scrambling to find her. But there was no one else. Only me. I couldn’t give up.

It’s the pneumonia that gets us old coots. I never did make it back home to my view—or back out on my river.

 

They’ve popped in a few times. I try to be as cheerful as I can, but I can see the guilt in her eyes. I saved her little girl’s life that morning. I’ve told her I’ll die a happy man knowing that. It’s true.

My boy says he’s gonna scoop out my kayak and put a wooden lid on—when the time comes.