The first time I saw him he couldn’t have been more than twelve, a little ferret of a kid, sharp and quick. Caleb Johnson, haloed in the eager light of a hunter-gatherer, was first to talk to me on the wharf that afternoon.

“What kind of rod is that, Mister?”

“Old one, sonny, automatic caster.”

“And that float, never seen one like that before.”

“It’s a bubble, used to use it for trout fishing. Watch. When there is a bite, it goes under and then I just put pressure on, not too sharp. Here we go.”

Onto estuary edge grass came an undersized Bream, not the first I’ve hooked today. Caleb reached out with skinny, scabby arms to grab our extracted aquatic life.

“Wait a minute, lad, let the flipping die down a bit. See, now I run my hand down fishing line and firmly hold the thing around its belly—that way it can’t spike you. Not everything out of ocean waters is trying to hurt us.”

He watched eagerly while I disengaged a tiny hook, but then frowned as I went to toss my fish back into the channel. “What’s wrong? It’s undersize and has to go back.”

“Yes, I know it’s small, but can you put it back gently? Fish must get a shock when they’re dropped or tossed back.”

“Sure, I can do that.”

We squatted and watched textured, scaled silver—so evident on grass—dull to a mercury-like grey; tiny fish creature gasped a few times and orientated itself again into liquid surrounds. Promptly disappeared into depths, maybe to grow and present a meal-sized catch after holiday crowds were packed up and gone.

“Want to try?”

“Can I?”

Caleb rode a bike with a bashed-about seat that wasn’t at the correct angle, with a dirty semi-rusted chain but swanky wheels. I wondered if he nicked them from somewhere.

Reminded myself I should stop being so judgemental, that all kids aren’t rotten to the core. Just like all old men fishing near summer holiday caravan parks aren’t paedophiles.

“How long you down here for?”

“Couple of weeks; my dad tries to bring us to an ocean location every year, says it’s cleansing.”

“He’s right, great place to spend school holidays.”

“You live here?”

“Yes, got a shack up the hill; used to be more fun when my wife was alive, but she’s been gone for a few years.”

“My mum’s dead too—car accident, or so dad says.”

Before Caleb could give any details, my bubble vanished, and we repeated the same catch and release.

“Better to be getting bites, even if they’re undersized, eh?”

“Yer, this is fun.”

“You never been fishing before?”

“Dad has heaps of times.”

As typical a small crowd gathered and I was reminded that fishing, particularly someone with different gear or having caught something, could quickly become a centre of attention. People were gathering like ancients coming together to celebrate a hunt. I’d be asked about what type of rod, significance of the bubble, my catch. Whole time Caleb beamed and lapped up attention. Smiled with emerging celebrity status associated with his success, as if some cultural secrets will magically appear.

I noticed a beer-gutted, large man looming, stubby holder-cloaked bottle in hand. Leer of ownership evident as he rested a gaze on Caleb, and up to me. A changed expression captured pure disdain. As Caleb noticed our inspection he jumped on his bike and vanished.

Skinny arms sticking out of oversized, in need of wash, t-shirt. Hair dishevelled, poorly trimmed, worse than a beach holiday look from too much salt water. Caleb fronted up every day for a whole fortnight, and I have to tell you I looked forward to his arrival during the next long holiday season, after his dad promised they’d return. Kid was dead keen and great company. Sort of grandson I always wished for, probably even nicer, due to a lack of family obligation. Caleb kept me company because he wanted.

One year he tapped me on the shoulder while I read newspapers, struggling with crossword clues. Snuck up outside our village post office shop. I noticed he’d been caught in grips of a growth spurt, seeming to have gained spider arms and legs since the last time I saw him.

“You still got that rod and bubble, Dennis?”

Once as I wandered back up to my shack through crowded Lakeside Caravan Park, population swollen with holiday makers again, must have been four years later when I spied a dreadful exchange.

Caleb is dragged off his bike, lots of shouting, and a king-sized whack across the poor kid’s ear. Caleb goes down, but his father doesn’t let up, puts boots in for a few kicks. I’m thinking this is more than discipline. His tiny frame spreadeagle as if a long-dead carcass of seagull-picked-over fish body. I’ve never known Caleb to ever do anything marginally close to warranting any sort of admonishment, at least while he’s been with me.

“What are you looking at, you old perve? I seen ya, think it’s OK to touch up little boys? That’s right bugger off, ya old weakling.”

My hand hovered over the phone, not too difficult to find a number. Right in the first page of telephone directories, under abuse and assault, but then I thought about potential conversations I might have. So, you are? And how do you know the boy? You spend time fishing with him, you talk to the kid, and sure, that’s all you do? What possible connections and links could I make? Only detail I know is a surname, Johnson…too common. Stays in Lakeside Caravan Park, so do numerous families. I need more information, like where they normally live and where is his mum?

“What happened to your face?”

“Slipped and fell off me bike.”

“No you didn’t. Your Dad did this, didn’t he?”

Caleb clammed up, just stared out into tiny swells, mini jostled waves, tossed up by a nor-easterly. Early breeze today, bringing the promise of a thunderstorm. Then he turned tear-brimming eyes to me, so much spilling out I can barely stop my own eyes from watering.

“I think it is great how when we catch small fish they get thrown back, don’t you?”

“You’re 16 now aren’t you?”

“Yer, why?”

“I think you can leave home if it’s not safe to remain.” He still stares at ocean, as if somehow it’s sending out messages only Caleb is privy to. No way I can read secrets the boy appears to understand.

“Then where would I go?”

“Come down here, I have plenty of room.”

“Get real, how would I afford bus fare on my own?”

“Couldn’t you get a paper run; deliver catalogues to letter boxes from your bike, some odd jobs and save up the cash?”

“Nice ideas, Dennis, but there just aren’t those kinds of chances for a kid like me. Everyone always thinks I’m going to nick something, or only want money to buy smokes.”

Now I’m hopelessly staring at my hands.

“Look I know Dad’s like he is, but if I’m not there he might lash out at something that will get him into real trouble. I’m sort of like a small fish taking bait, getting pulled in and then released compared to shit we’d be in if some giant Marlin or Shark took our hook.”