RIVER OF DREAMS
THE SOUND OF BROOKLYN at night comes to me like an old refrigerator humming in the distance. It must be a boat passing, as its presence softens and fades. A fishing hamlet couched on the Hawkesbury River, the town’s working rhythms evoke childhood memories of early mornings in shorts, heading down to nearby water with a hand-reel. It reminds me of babies, given a ticking clock to help them sleep, a sound that mimics a mother’s heartbeat. Soon enough, these rhythms enter my dreams and I swear I can feel the moon tide while I am sleeping.
In the blue hour just before dawn, kookaburras call. I’m awake early and a new café is open. The owner has given up his riverboat business, ferrying cappuccinos out to where visitors moor their boats. Instead, he has set up here in town opposite The Anglers Rest Hotel. “It’s going to be alright,” he says brightly. “You’re my first customer today.” A good flat white, a crisp morning. I reckon he is right.
Boats are already coming and going at the local marina. The ferry has been in and out. Early trains have taken commuters to Sydney and dropped their first tourists, who are happily pulling bags across the road on trolley wheels. Hawkesbury River station delivers them into the
