The park ranger had already gone back to pointing out a koala high in a gum tree to twenty or thirty squealing primary school children, so she didn’t bother thanking him for the directions. Jules craned her head back but couldn’t make out the animal within the clutter of the subtropical rainforest canopy. She didn’t think koalas lived in rainforests, even the dry subtropical kind, but there were plenty of gum trees salted in among the screw pine and raintree and bracken fern.

She took a swig from a water bottle and resumed the trek up the headland. ‘Not a bad day for it,’ she said to herself.

The coastline curved away in a series of scalloped bays, most of them home to easily surfed point breaks. Those closer to the seaside village of Noosa were crowded with holiday-makers. The further up the trail she climbed, through thick forests of beach lily and passion vine, the more challenging the surf conditions down below seemed to become, thinning out the crowds. Julianne was glad of the shade from the forest, even though the humidity beneath the canopy seemed much worse than it had back on the beach. After five minutes of climbing, her tee-shirt was stained with dark sweat patches, and she had finished most of her bottle of water.

Joggers ran past her in both directions, drenched with perspiration. Neither the heat nor the climb seemed to bother the surfers, at least those heading out for a ride. They ran nearly as quickly as the joggers.

Jules was in no rush. As far as she knew there was only one track in and out, so she wouldn’t miss him. She did her best to enjoy the walk. An easterly breeze pushed tentatively into the fringes of the forest, dappling the path with sunlight as the foliage hissed and swayed. Breaks in the vegetation afforded a view to the north, where the coast curved gently around to form what seemed to be a massive open bay. The main tourist beach was crowded with thousands of bathers playing in the gentle surf break. A couple of yachts and some smaller cabin cruisers, one of them hers, rode at anchor further out.

She found him standing on a sunny platform watching the surf crashing into the base of the rocky headland hundreds of feet below. There was no mistaking Rhino A. Ross. Even after a couple of months of enforced rest, and wrapped in bandages, he looked like a powerful if wounded pachyderm. Leaned up against a safety rail entwined with orchids and guinea flowers, his chin resting on his hands, he presented a lonesome, melancholy aspect.

‘Hello, Rhino,’ she said.

He stood and turned and the woebegone air that had hung around him was banished by smile and a roar.

‘Miss Jules!’