Full moon.(Short story)

A woman is lying in the sun, she is wearing a red bikini and half-dozing from the pleasure of the warmth of the sand. She has been for a swim and even attempted, unsuccessfully, to body-surf. The water at Noosa is warm and she stayed in for quite a while.

Earlier, when she had half-woken, she had been frightened by what she saw. She was still in a dream, it was the dream that had haunted her when she was younger--much younger--at university, the frightening images of bodies bobbing in the cold, gentle ocean; some were soldiers with their gear strapped to their backs, bobbing like corks alongside the vulnerable civilian bodies, all equally hopeless. It was a nuclear war, and it was the first time she had absorbed the possible impact of this technology. These were images from a film, searing images which have never left Heather. The night she saw the film--she has never seen it again--she had not been able to sleep. Her boyfriend tried to comfort her, had suggested they get up and make a warm drink. He believed she had been consoled and they had gone back to bed. In fact he had not been able to console her, she managed that only when she promised herself she would never bring children into this world. The horror of the film had penetrated her psyche; this concept of annihilation was as pure and as new to her as were the ideas of Plato and Aristotle in her Philosophy class. That was when she established the conditions she would abide by. It was as clear as her knowledge that men and women formed unions--alliances that sometimes lasted a lifetime. She hoped more than anything that she would have such a union, but she would never have children.

In her fully wakened state--the sea close to azure, not the contemptuous grey of the war--she was gradually cheered. It was thirty years since she had first had that dream. She now knew how to cross the boundaries from the desolate to the possible, and (she would laugh!) to the optimistic. It was a technique she had learnt; it had taken many years, and involved events that could have taken her spirit.

In a few days Avril would arrive. She was looking forward to her friend's visit. They had met twenty-eight years ago in France, when they were both nurses, and had remained fast friends. Avril had spent most of that time living overseas, yet their infrequent contact hadn't lessened their friendship. Avril had three children, Heather had never had any. As she ran her toes through the warm sand she considered the millions--hundreds of millions--of babies born since she had met Avril, since she'd felt the world had only a desolate future: something she no longer believed.

And then she thought of the boy she'd met on the walk last night. She cautioned herself: he's not a boy, don't call him that, he must be thirty, maybe even thirty-five. But she did say out loud, "He is young," and then chided herself, "not that young. You were married and separated by thirty." It was in her marriage that she had learnt what it meant to be truly unhappy, but that was another story.

She had been in the National Park at dusk, and was just finishing an afternoon walk and thinking of the gin-and-tonic she would have on her return to the apartment.

A ranger standing beside the information leaflets asked if she needed any help. Heather often read these guides only after having a good look around--though she had found that she never retained much of what she read anyway. Eucalyptus ... acacia ... What attracted her was the smell of the trees and plants, the shape of the leaves and density of the growth: the bark, and the bits that fell to the ground. For some reason she had quite a good knowledge of ferns, and a little of orchids, but that was it. Birds no, except for the obvious ones. She loved just wandering around the park, hearing the bark crunch underfoot, and looking up--almost falling over, to take in the forest canopy.