'IT was the summer that Deano and I travelled mostly by snorkel. That January will be remembered for other, bigger things. A sky muddied by smoke, a handful of vaguely concerning bulletins about a virus in China. The beginnings of the Trumpian death-spiral. But in our small world, rattling around in the old Flinders Island house with its flies and its huntsmans. it was the cycle it had always been: swimming for flathead - miles and miles for maybe two or three fish, so that the eventual meal represented a calorific exchange of sorts.'
(Introduction)