I’d been smoking weed for most of the forty-two years since the family moved to town in ’77, and no prick — black, white or brindle — was ever going to stop me. But, of course, I had to hide it. Hence my toilet-roll alibi, sitting on the granite boulder next to me, a glowing orb in the moonlight. I wouldn’t need to use one for days yet. Not after living on bush food and doing this much walking. But I’d need my dope. Even thinking about going without made my body ache.

~

The night before, we’d cooked the abalone whole — upside down on the fire. They spun in their shells and lapped at the air like cow’s tongues until they died. The boys looked on like footy supporters in the front row at the MCG: not in the game, exactly, but close enough to feel like they had a stake in it. Jacob was the exception. He kneeled at the fire and poked the steaming shellfish with the glowing end of a stick until they were cooked. Said he’d done it all before — and probably had too. Hell, I knew my way around an abalone at his age. But I grew up over here. Some of the young fellas didn’t eat much. Said they weren’t hungry. It’s always the same on these camps — for the first few days, anyway. Eventually their hunger overcomes the need for the familiarity of their usual diet.

We call these trips ‘survival camps’ because they are all about learning some of the old ways. Living off the land. To the old fellas, the tribal people — and even us mob who grew up on the islands — culture isn’t something we try to learn or reclaim. It’s what we are immersed in from the moment we are born. But these boys have been assimilated. Townified, we call it. Nothing to be embarrassed about. They may live in two worlds, but they are still mob. And they need to know what separates ’em from their Aussie mates.