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stick-like figures on surfboards, and then collapsed like thunder. Tailfins shot into the air while bodies flayed and star-jumped into the water.
    Somehow, the shifting moods of the bay always soothed or elevated my own. I never understood quite how this worked, but it seemed that in the bay’s enormity, with the crescent of green that clung to its foreshore, I was always accommodated.
    MY GRADUAL WITHDRAWAL from work was a relief. By that August, I was only coming into my practice once a month, to see a handful of long-term clients. But the nights were penetrated by bad dreams, and it took me up to an hour to get to sleep. The more I let go of work, the more I unravelled.
    I brought my old cricket bat into the bedroom, resting it by the bed, within arm’s reach. Although I’d never heard of anything bad happening in our neighbourhood, I feared that we might experience a home invasion. I especially feared for the safety of the girls and Anna. Anna said that I was overreacting.
    The kids’ noise and demands had become irritating. It was okay when they didn’t squabble, but they were ten, seven, and five — squabbles were inevitable. Sometimes I wished they’d go away. Anna prodded me to do things, and I wasn’t sure if she was being bossy or I was being slack. My energy for gardening disappeared — the weeds and wilting plants taunted me. I felt uncomfortable in crowds and didn’t like confined spaces. Other than my swimming, most things required too much effort. On weekends I sat for long periods on the verandah, reading the newspaper. I was drawn to articles about murders, disasters, and neglect of children, even as I was repulsed by the stories.
    Our family attended Nippers, a surf-lifesaving program for children, on Sunday mornings. But I was frustrated when the girls held back, fearful of going in the waves. I didn’t remember being afraid of the waves when I was young.
    What was happening to me? I was prickly, yet as fragile as porcelain. What I perceived as aggressive words from others frightened me. Watching the news, I had begun to cry at pictures showing human or animal distress, and even at sentimental, good-news stories. I had an idea I’d seen too much human suffering, especially trauma. But I wasn’t sure if that was the whole story. Images of Dad’s near-death and what might happen next sloshed around in my mind.
    I knew that I needed help, but from whom? I was the helper — the one others always relied upon to know what to do. I’d talked to my colleagues, but how much could I burden them? I needed someone else; I couldn’t do this by myself anymore.
    I thought of the psychologists in our area. There were not many with more experience than me. I called Wayne, a clinical psychologist. I knew he had done his PhD on psychological trauma in Vietnam War veterans, and we’d spoken a couple of times, over the phone, about trauma cases. He was the best I could find. I made an appointment for September.

3
    WAYNE’S OFFICE WAS on the first floor of an old building in a nearby town. As I walked up the staircase, each step felt like a deepening admission of my crushed sense of invincibility. At the top, there was no receptionist. I waited in a poky room, alone, sitting on one of the worn chairs. A radio bleated from the corner.
    Out of a door came a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late fifties, dressed like a farmer in town clothes. He had florid hair — a style that was a throwback to the seventies — a fleshy face, and a generous mouth. ‘David?’ he said, looking at me.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜G’day. Wayne.’
    He invited me in. Like mine, his consulting room was unadorned; there were no personal items, except for framed degrees and certificates. But it was light-filled, with a big open window. The noises of cars, conversation, and a busker’s banjo floated up from the street below.
    â€˜Have a seat over