Word count: 1485 Onward Its peaceful, isnt it?

my dad says to me, his voice breaking the silence shared between the two of us. Oh no, I say. Im not falling for that one again. A week or so ago, I did fall for it. When the two of us stood together on the raised lookout and I agreed that the sight nature had laid out in front of us was, in fact, peaceful, he then said, Except for this. Whereupon a loud, low rumbling eruption emerged from his back side. You might wonder what sort of grown man does that? The two of us were standing side by side, looking out over the ocean at the point where the waves break and the water turns from a deep blue to white and the birds can be heard calling faintly off in the distance. It seems almost disrespectful. To stand within the beauty of nature, its majesty and glory, and debase it with a fart joke. But I laughed. How could I not? As far as this sort of thing is concerned, I am still very much my fathers son. This time, we arent looking out over the ocean, but a sandy expanse, yellow as reflected sunlight and prickled with stone fingers stabbing skyward, in a seemingly random pattern discernible only to the earth itself. Dad drove slowly through the twisted, winding path laid out for those of us who chose to take it, with me sitting on the roof of the van, taking photograph after photograph, only occasionally remembering to hold on for my own safety now and then. We were in search of our own small measure of solitude, and we found it here, a viewing platform unoccupied with not another soul in sight. I brought my palm down on the roof of the van a couple of times, and when it stopped, I jumped down, my feet sinking slightly into the sand, while the drivers door opened and my dad slowly eased himself out. A grimace flashed across his face as he reached behind and rubbed his back for a few seconds. Okay? I asked. Im fine, he said, waving me off. I bounded up the steps, two at a time, as Dad took his time, taking each step slowly, one by one, until he eventually joined me at the top. If only we had the idea to take this trip around the country a few years earlier. He couldnt join me on my relatively gentle climb of Wave Rock a few days ago, and I saw it eat away at him when he looked through the photos I took of the view from the top. It hurts to see the active man of my childhood memories, replaced with this broken backed shadow of the person he used to be. I snapped a few more photos, until Dad finally joined me at the top of the platform. I turned my camera off and slipped it back in my pocket. Dad looked at me quizzically. Battery dead? he asked. No, I said. Ive just reckon Ive got enough photos.Together we stand in silence, staring out over the Pinnacles, pillars that have stood for thousands of years in their own solitude and will most likely exist long after we have gone, stone sentinels standing strong against time itself. Not a sound, nothing else in the world seemed to exist, to disturb us here, until Dads attempt at humour.

Youre right though, I say to him, all joking aside, It is peaceful. He doesnt say anything, just nods in agreement. In fact, I continue, Tell Mum, Im going to fake my own death and start a new life here. Dad makes an exaggerated show of looking around at our desolate surroundings. Right here? Maybe not right here. I say, But this is a nice enough part of the world to settle down in. Perhaps in one of the towns we passed through earlier. Dad just shakes his head. Sceptical? Youre a city boy, he says. Always have been. You wouldnt last a month in a small town out this way before you got bored. I shrug my shoulders. Perhaps.Perhaps not. No. I know you too well. No chance in hell. Dad then shakes his own head, as if trying to wrap his head around a concept that remains just out of his reach. Why would you want me to tell your mother anyway? Doesnt that defeat the purpose of faking your own death to begin with? You have to tell Mum, I say. You know shed just worry. He looks at me. Im not sure that makes sense. Yeah, this is not my most well thought out idea. There are another few moments of silence. Okay then, Dad eventually says. What will I tell your friends? What do you mean? Theyre going to ask how you died. Should I just make something up on your behalf? No, dont do that. Knowing my dad, hes liable to tell everyone I know I died in some horrendously embarrassing and stupid manner. Thats the problem with sharing a similar sense of humour. Its a pre-emptive strike against me, because he knows Id do the same thing to him were our roles reversed. Tell them I fell, I say. Say I got to close to the edge of a cliff face and slipped over the edge, plummeting hundreds of metres to my doom. He shakes his head. No-one is going to buy that. You wouldnt go within twenty metres of the edge of a cliff. Everyone knows youre scared of heights. This is true. I dont like heights. This trip has given my father and I numerous opportunities to share things with one another. But as far as he knows, I dont like heights because Im scared of falling, not because Im scared of the one rogue voice within my mind that Ive never been able to truly silence. The one who whispers seductively to me, to try to convince me it would be a great idea to jump. Youre right, I say, before the two of us lapse back into silence. The early afternoon sun beats down upon us both from its cloudless blue sky. Do you think Im making the right decision? I ask. Yes, he says. I wouldnt fake my own death for anything less than a gambling debt or a messy divorce. Not that, I say, The other thing. Coming home?

I look down at my shoes. I keep telling myself that its the right thing to do. But sometimes when I think about it, it feels like a backwards step. I sigh. Im thirty-three years old. You spoke to your psych say to you about it? he asks, and I nod. What did she say? She said that if it works for me, then A smart woman, Dad says. Maybe you should listen to her. I do, I say, and then I turn my head and look directly at Dad. You and Mum dont mind, do you? Youre our son, he says, simply. I was expecting to have to plead my case. To confess my sins, as they were. Eating take away more often than I should because its easier to visit the Hungry Jacks within walking distance, rather than go through the hassle of cooking dinner for one each night. Slowly letting the contents of my living room become a collection of litter and debris from a life half-lived, because as long as no-one else was ever visiting, then what did I care? And finally breaking down and admitting I needed to get out before the walls of my apartment, creeping in centimetre by centimetre each night I spent there on my own, finally constricted and trapped me within once and for all. I didnt say any of this though. I didnt have to. He knew already. I always say my dad may not be an educated man, but he is a smart man. Shall we get moving, he says, as he leans over slightly and looks at my watch. Well need to if were going to make Geraldton. Sounds like a plan, I say. I watch as Dad gingerly gets to his feet and begins walking slowly toward the steps leading down to our van. Do you need a hand? I ask. No, he says. Ill be okay. His knuckles turn white as he grips the handrail, gently easing himself down each step one by one. When he eventually reaches the bottom, he looks up at me. Are you going to get back up on the roof? I take my hand out of my pocket, where up until a few seconds ago, it was gently fingering the wrist strap of my camera. Ive got all the photos I need, I say, Ill sit inside with you. Onward then, he says. Forever onward, I say.