Dad saw Mum for the first time on a jetty in Palm Beach. He was swinging his legs off the edge, eating chips. She was fishing.
Technically, she wasn't fishing. She was standing on the jetty watching her boyfriend fish. The boyfriend was all: 'Me strong. Me good at fishing. Me have muscles,' and Mum was putting together the words she needed to break up with him.
So she broke up with the guy, right there, and as a parting shot she said, 'Also. I don't like fishing. It's inhumane.'
And the guy said, 'They're fine! I chuck them back in!'
And Mum said, 'Not before you rip out their insides with that hook.'
And the boofhead said, 'Ah, fuck off.'
So she said, 'That's not nice, Barry,' and she took his fishing rod and threw it in the water.
Then the guy got all feisty, so she shoved him in too.
Dad watched the whole thing and thought to himself, Get yourself a girl who can catch and release.
That's how Dad puts it, anyway, when he tells the story. Most recent retelling: last Thursday night.
I was trying to study and Dad leaned beside the window saying, 'And she marched off like Wonder Woman, Biz. And then I saw her at the bus stop waiting for the bus, and I went up to her, and said, "Excellent technique."
'She said, "Thanks, I've had practice." And then I said . . . well, I couldn't speak, because boom, there she was, smack dab in my heart. We never looked back.'
Dad grinned.
It was a great story. But I was distracted, trying to figure out a polynomial.
'That's great, Dad. Don't suppose you could be of use, and help me with my maths?'
When I looked around, he was gone.
I often think of a bubble when I think of Dad. He's sort of see-through, but when he talks about Mum, or me as a baby, his colours fill out.
It's kind of beautiful to watch. If I don't say anything, he'll totally float there for hours.