The distant, mournful hoot announces the approach of the old train. It will wheeze into view shortly, predictably, just another journey along this beachside railway line, first taken one hundred and sixty years earlier!
The railway was originally built to move the wheat and wool coming from inland Australia, down the Murray River, finally connecting to the nearby saltwater port, and from there, into square-rigged clippers destined for distant markets. The train nowadays mostly entertains holidaymakers, tourists on the South Coast thrilling to the experience of riding a steam loco beside the popular surf beaches.
Jacob van Straalen trained as an engine driver back in the 60’s, following in his father’s footsteps, and still delights when at the controls of these steam-driven behemoths. The soot-laced steam envelops everything, and everyone in the cab as his Fireman feverishly feeds the flames. The black dust settles into his pores, dark rivulets coursing down his old, stubbled face: a taste, maybe it was a smell that will challenge even tonight’s shower.
The coal rivals the smell of the rotten egg gas that rises on the low tides from the crusty, exposed seaweed at the water’s edge. He is never sure which he associates more with the job: the dust, or the weed. No matter really, they both instantly place him in this cab, an indelible combination that regularly seeps into his subconscious.
There are the occasional holiday specials that have the loco travelling north, beyond the riverport, into the hillside towns beyond. Jacob is always at the controls, thrilling at the anticipated opportunity to use the old bridge north of town: but first, the cemetery. It sits on the left, just before the bridge.
He releases a blast of steam into the whistle, in part salute to the departed souls, in part just for the hell of it. He smiles – that hoot will be heard for kilometres – he hopes the cemetery residents appreciate his habitual gesture.
He is approaching the high fly-over above the creek, 20 metres down to the burbling water below. Jacob slows the loco, gently easing onto the bridge, the engine’s pistons slow to a soft hiss and suck, hiss and suck, moving forward carefully, while from below he hears the distant echoey rumble off the bridge’s stone and brick palisade. The train sets up a low repetitive vibration: it grows in intensity as they pass the bridge’s midpoint, and then that puckered kiss as the compressed air bounces off the far wall, and the train returns to terra firma.
The final run for the day: back along the coast, now with a south-westerly pushing up the surf, drawing the body and board riders into the swells, a high tide reclaiming much of the sand, the setting sun abandoning those remaining pleasure-seekers to their evening pursuits. The several roads accessing the beach provide Jacob with the excuse to hoot, toot and whistle with total abandon, the beach crowd smile, they’ve heard his salute before, just another beach run complete.