Things are vague in the beginning, as one might expect trying to remember back to when you were two. I’m not sure how old I was when the memories that stuck began, perhaps about three or four. It’d make sense, given the timeline in my parents’ life.

I was born in 1966 in Perth. The state of Western Australia, always a magnet for mineral discoveries of one sort or another throughout its history, was in the midst of another during the late 1960s. Iron ore had been discovered in the Hamersley Ranges in the far north-west, another remote area of the state that few of fair skin had seen. The findings were significant, and mines popped up all over, along with the towns that supported them. Places like Newman, Mt. Tom Price and Parapurdoo appeared out of nowhere, remote towns built from scratch, usually a number of miles away from the mines. There was work to be had, particularly in construction. Dad was quick to jump on the bandwagon, and worked on many new homes in the region, most notably as a roofer. In those days the roof material was corrugated asbestos sheeting, used in great numbers before the dangers of asbestos were eventually realized. He would carry one or two of the corrugated sheets up a ladder to the roof to fix into position. This implies that he was quite strong, and indeed he was. He wasn’t necessarily tall, about 5’10”, but his stocky frame supported incredible strength.

My first memory is of somewhere out there in the desert area, near one of these new towns. Dad, Mum and I are in a small caravan, parked off the beaten track, away from town. The sandy ground is bright red, like my hair, and pockets of dry spinifex grass dot the area. Spinifex is a harsh desert grass, prickly, spiny, not at all the soft lush kind you can run your hands through. It is very hot, being out in the desert, and I’m out playing in the scorching sand with my favorite toy, which at that time was a horsey-truck. It was a brown big rig, a Matchbox toy or similar, and the trailer was the horse trailer kind. There might have been plastic horses to go inside it, but I only remember the truck itself.

Skip to another memory, and this time the caravan is parked amongst others on a construction site in one of these new towns. New homes were popping up around us; I could literally watch Dad carry sheets of corrugated sheeting up the ladder from our caravan. This meant that I was close enough to try and climb the ladder myself, which I did, with horsey-truck in hand. I made it up several rungs before slipping and falling to the dust below. I recall all sorts of commotion around me, adults springing from all directions, but my only concern was finding my horsey-truck. I wasn’t hurt, apparently. There’s a lot of angry yelling at the base of the ladder, no doubt a lot of it coming from Dad, pissed off at me for trying to climb the ladder. I will introduce you to an understatement: Dad had a temper. This will become a recurring theme.

Me getting into trouble is another recurring theme; they will run hand in hand. There were some kids in another caravan who had the greatest collection of Tonka toys imaginable. They were very protective of those toys, and I wanted badly to play with them. More than that, I wanted badly to have them, so one day I snuck the lot of them away and hid them under our caravan. I didn’t hide them very well, as they were quickly discovered, and I was once again in a pile of trouble. More yelling. I wasn’t allowed near those kids or their Tonkas from that point on.

Somewhere around the same time, I would guess, we occasionally visited Point Samson on the coast. Dad enjoyed fishing and would at any opportunity. Point Samson is a small seaside town, population about 250, located about 18 km from Roebourne (which itself is between Karratha and Port Hedland). I recall a jetty off which people would stand and fish. On one occasion I stepped into the blood and guts of a stingray that lay out on the deck of the jetty, which was cause for more angry yelling from the old man.

The most notable memory of Point Samson was the day I was with Mum, walking and playing about the rocks along the shore. Dad was fishing from the jetty, over there to the left about a few hundred yards. The sea water splashed about the rocks, which were heavily encrusted with barnacles. I must have snuck away unnoticed, I can only assume, and wandered about the rocks watching the water gently swirl in and out with each wave. I was wearing thongs (which are known as flip-flops everywhere else, it seems) and one of them came off my foot and landed in the water. I reached down to grab it, but it playfully bobbed up and down just slightly out of reach. I figured I should perhaps sit on the rock and try to get my foot into it. As I maneuvered myself into a sitting position, I slipped and fell, landing firmly in a seated position on top of barnacles. The backs of both knees were sliced open. I remember screaming, Mum showing up in a panic, and blood. Lots of blood. Dad is eventually summoned to the scene, and I’m laid out in the back of the station wagon on a blanket or something.

It’s quite possible I passed out, having lost quite a bit of blood, and having to be transported a long way to a hospital capable of dealing with this injury. I don’t know if that was Roebourne (18 km), Karratha (58 km) or Port Hedland (over 200 km). I can guess it might have been Karratha. I remember waking up in the hospital, Dad and a doctor looking over me, and some big machine-looking thing in the room. I imagined it as some sewing machine that had stitched up my legs. Apparently I came close to bleeding to death, and I still have the scars to remind me. Another recurring theme: almost getting myself killed.