I stayed where I was, hidden from the moonlight and so from view, and watched as Greek Poppy held the struggling octopus down and Flo swiftly cut its head from its legs. Flo fiddled around for a bit, then dumped the still-writhing mess of legs into a bucket and the two of them waded back out into the bay, leaving the motionless lump of head on the sand.

Just before she’d cut the octopus, Flo’s knife had momentarily caught the light of the moon. That timeless glimmer of pearly light on steel was enough for me—maudlin and pensive as I was that evening—to endow the scene with a cultural solemnity far beyond what it deserved. The coincidence of the solstice only compounded the impression of mystique that was stirring within me.

This has played out before, I thought. How many women have gathered here, like this? I could almost see them, hear them, echoing and multiplying through the halls of time; the cries in Greek and English could just as easily be cries in Paredarerme. I wondered if it was because they were women that this scene intimated such mystery and secrecy? They were the priestesses, carrying out the Eleusinian Mysteries before the ceremonies were corrupted by rape; they were the witches, gathered around the cauldron, before being interrupted by Macbeth and his posse; they were Palawa women, swimming through icy, shark-ridden waters to hunt seals, before the European sealers forcibly co-opted them into colonial industry. I know it sounds stupid, but all I wanted in that moment was to gain access: to acquire a claim to that local inheritance; to immerse myself in that raw, feminine culture; to both transcend my body and collapse into history.

Within minutes, they struck again. As they dragged their new prey to the shore, I floated towards them. A moth, drawn in by the torchlight.

‘That you, Lucy?’

I started a little at the way Flo’s voice ripped through the air. ‘Well g’day,’ she said. ‘How ya doing, girl?’ She had a knife clutched in her fist and was kneeling on the sand beside Poppy, who had draped her body over the squirming octopus like a human cage.

‘Not bad, thanks. How’re you going?’

‘All right. Whatcha doing out here?’

Before I could answer, she turned to Poppy and the octopus. Poppy shuffled herself back, giving Flo the room she needed to behead the octopus with a sawing slice. Then they both turned to face me, ready for my answer, like what they’d just done was nothing out of the ordinary.

‘Nothing much,’ I said. ‘Just mooching. Octopus, ay?’ I was uncomfortably aware of the way my consonants were drawling and my vowels were becoming harsh as I parroted Flo’s tone back at her. Funny isn’t it, how that happens?

I watched as Flo worked the beak out from between the octopus’s legs and flung it away. And you know what? To my surprise, I found the blunt, down-to-earth competence that underpinned her movements enchanted me all the more.