Clinging to the buoy that was the last inflated body afloat, my father shut his eyes, bit into the flesh of his raft for fear his screams of pain might encourage a more savage feeding, and he awaited the judgement. Whether you are a holy man or not, you have to be awed by what happened next. As the sharks closed in one last time and my father muttered curses upon the cruelty one has to endure, a rain of harpoons descended upon those predators of the sea, and soon shark blood was mixing with that of the Aboriginals. A rain from heaven, you might think? Perhaps, in a way. Through the darkness a ship emerged, and hearing the joyous hoots of her crew, my father opened his eyes. Emblazoned upon her starboard bow was the symbol of the Dutch East India Company.
“Europeans!” he thought. “They will surely take me aboard.” Indeed, they took him aboard right then, hoisting him up with a sturdy rope. Yet once aboard, the strangeness of the crew became horrendously apparent. This was not a pleasant vessel, to say the least, and here is where our story takes a frightening turn. Here is where our tale gets disturbing. But first, my mother…
