Chris Turner: We fell into casual conversation in that easy way men do when there's a fire to be tended, and talk turned to my recent communion with the Great Barrier Reef. One of the locals, a maker of elegant slide didgeridoos of his own design, said something about how the future didn't look very bright for the reef.'Not unless we really make some changes, no,' I replied, shooting for a note of pragmatic optimism.
'Nah,' chimed in a ponytailed dude named Angus who was assembling pizzas. 'It's gone, mate. Might as well start getting used to the idea.'
I didn't know what to say to that, so I busied myself with the cheese grater. His tone had sent me reeling for reasons I couldn't place until much later. It wasn't grave or accusatory, not glib nor gleefully nihilistic. It was a win-some-lose-some tone, a shooting-the-breeze-around-the-bonfire tone. The tone of someone who'd already reached some sort of difficult reconciliation a good while back with the notion that there was nothing so sacred or durable that it exists beyond the reach of this tumult. It was the tone, I guess, of someone who'd dedicated his life to the step that came after the lament.
