Futures

Emma Briggs
Jul 21, 2017 · 20 min read

2050 Version 2.0

Pic by MyFriendSam

The storm has passed and the sea is calm once more. After so many years, the mere fact of being in the middle of the ocean no longer fills me with awe, but moments like these remind me why I still spend months away from home, alone in this little boat. I could never appreciate this level of tranquillity if it hadn’t been for the previous sleepless night. I can still see the rain in the distance, moving away from me. A shearwater soars diagonally just above the waves with almost motionless wings. The soft breeze and gentle swell soothe my brain like a narcotic. My half-closed eyes rest on the horizon and all thoughts drift away.

A few hours later I approach the supply vessel and it is time to get back to work. I have one more cyclone preparation delivery before I return to Byron Bay. It is medicine and emergency food for the tiny population of the Torres Islands, the northernmost group in Vanuatu. After the ship’s crew helps me to fill and correctly balance every available space, I let go of the lines and steer towards the islands. With my yacht low in the water and slow to respond, I now need to stay alert for the safety of my cargo and my boat. I love my work, but I can’t help anticipating the moment when the supplies have been delivered and I can sail, free and light, back to my home and family. Not much longer now.

This is my first time in these remote and picturesque islands. Their peaks are not as towering and jagged as those on the nearby Banks Islands, but they drip with rainforests, coconut palms and waterfalls down to coral beaches and turquoise waters. Wild surf crashes along much of the coastline and it is not easy to find a safe anchorage, but eventually I come to a sheltered cove with gleaming white sand on the north of Tegua Island. I drop the anchor between two reefs. I have been told of certain radio frequencies which could be useful for communication, but nobody responds to my calls, so I will have to go ashore. There is supposed to be a village not far from this beach. My tender boat doesn’t start straight away and I’m tempted to dive into that breathtaking blue and swim to the beach. It’s a little far though, and probably not wise to risk getting cut on submerged coral. I persevere and finally the engine comes alive.

After some tricky navigating around the reef, the dinghy is up on the sand and with a backpack of samples, I trudge up the muddy path through dense forest. It takes about half an hour before I can hear the chatter of village life, and soon after that I see faces light up with surprised smiles as I enter the clearing. Several children run in my direction and I ask them to take me to the chief. Laughing, they grab my hands and pull me to one of the cane and palm huts near the middle of the settlement. The man inside is about sixty, with a bushy beard, wearing a blue singlet, shorts and no shoes. He doesn’t speak much English so I show him my samples of first aid kits and canned food, and point back at the trail. He understands, shakes my hand and gathers some men together. I ask about canoes, and he gestures down to the beach. If everything goes this smoothly, I should be out of here in no time!

Loading the canoes is a delicate manoeuvre as they are easily unbalanced, but the men are experienced and the heaviest packages can go in the dinghy. They paddle expertly between the reefs and I putt along after them. We form a human chain along the path to deliver the supplies from the beach to the village. When everything is stored, I ask a man who speaks fluent English if they are able to distribute the goods amongst the neighbouring islands on their canoes. He assures me this is no problem. I check if they understand that the food is meant to be for emergencies only. He laughs and tells me not to worry. The villagers will definitely not be opening tinned food while there are coconut crabs, reef fish, papayas and yams to be eaten. I see his point. While we’re on that subject, the man invites me to stay and share their evening meal. Although I’m eager to start my journey back to Ruby and Dylan, I cannot decline this offer. I suppose fresh food and new friends will be worth one more night of sleeping alone in my boat. Probably most people would jump at this opportunity, but somehow I have arrived at a place in my life where I’m reaching my quota of new experiences and quiet time with my family is what I most covet.

For dinner, the chief kills one of the precious pigs. On these islands, wealth is demonstrated not by how many resources are accumulated, but by how many are given away. It’s a delightful perspective that benefits all. My impatience melts and I feel honoured to share the feast. Surveying the bounty on the table in front of me, it indeed seems bizarre that I am the one bringing provisions to them, but I know that a severe cyclone could devastate their food sources in an instant. We all know that one day that cyclone will come.

A woman sitting next to me at the table tells me about a storm that hit the island two years ago. It destroyed most of the huts, wiped out the yam crop and many of the fruit trees, but nobody was hurt and now, she says, you would never know it had happened. I return her dazzling smile and find myself staring at her strong, coffee-coloured arms. The way the muscles move beneath her smooth skin as she pours herself a drink activate a desire that has been lying dormant in my stomach. It really must be time to go home.


What an exquisite day! Not just the sun, but the whole sky is shining. The air tastes sweet after last night’s rain, though the ground is already dry. A soft, warm breeze flows up the hills and whirls the turbines gently. The neighbours’ gardens show new leaves, new buds, new flowers and fruits since last time I walked through the village. I turn the corner to drink in the sight that never fails to fill me with a kind of liquid joy. Sunlight glitters in millions of rippling drops of water in the bay, fringed with mountains on one side and the old, white lighthouse on the hill on the other. A small whale-shaped island sits in the middle, and far, far in the east the deep-blue ocean spills over the horizon.

I walk down to the beach and take off my shoes to feel the silky sand under my feet. My eyes scan the sails in the distance, although I know Victor must be still very far away. I wonder where exactly. I miss him, but it is good to have the extra time in each day, for a little while at least. I sift through the line of broken coral for any special pieces. A shadow passes over me and I look up to see a sea eagle soaring in its graceful V above the water’s edge. I watch its flight down the length of the beach until I notice the Elders sitting on the sand, deep in conversation. It appears important, whatever it is they are discussing.

I wander towards them, wondering. As I approach Uncle Birrung shouts, “Jingi walla, Ruby!”, but the others are too involved in the debate to pay attention to me. I wave at Uncle and keep walking down the beach, through the shallow creek inlet and eventually up the stairs, past huge pine trees and screeching lorikeets and into the park. Here, the young children are playing and talking and sleeping. My boy Dylan is around somewhere, and when I spot him, he sees me too and runs over to hug my leg briefly, then trots back to the game with his little group of friends.

One of the child-carers, Liam, sees me and strolls over, smiling. His black hair, pale skin and clear, green eyes suddenly make me feel slightly uneasy. Although I’ve known him for many years, I never really noticed his eyes before. He thanks me for coming, we chat a little and then he asks me if I’m ready. I am, and we gather the children in a circle so I can begin my talk. I tell them the basics of what I have been researching for many years: the animals that used to be. I start with the big, exciting ones such as leopards, rhinoceroses and gorillas, then I tell them about the delicious tuna and the enormous leatherback turtles that once swam in the sea. Next I describe the animals that lived closer to home: the black-striped wallaby; the spotted-tail quoll; the giant barred frog and glossy black-cockatoo. I tell them about the vibrant colours of the coral reef that used to be right here in this bay providing many kinds of turtles, sharks and other fish with food and shelter.

Many of the children listen with open mouths and wide eyes, while a few are distracted, as I explain how important it is that we protect all the animals, birds, sea-life, insects and plants in our world. All life is interconnected, I say, and if we hurt one species it affects all of the others in the end, including our own. I ask them for ideas about how we can take care of our bay and our hills and our forests. The answers make me want to laugh and cry at the same time: planting trees; cleaning the water; feeding the birds; watching the animals and building shelters for them. They know what to do. I thank them for their help.

Now it’s playtime again. The kids disperse and Liam praises me and touches my upper arm and, unmistakably, I feel the transfer of energy between us. I look into his eyes and a pulse beats in my throat. He says I must be lonely with Victor away and if I ever want some company to give him a call. I was not expecting such a direct offer. “Thanks,” I say, and quickly turn and make my way towards the beach. All the way back home replayed scenes and imagined future scenarios cascade through my mind. I’m hardly aware of the route I’m walking, but my feet remember the way.

As I sit at my computer, I realise I will have to burst the bubbles inside me before I can properly concentrate on the writing that I have to do. I picture those green eyes and keenly feel the temptation of a new connection. Victor knows he is my chosen one and I think he would understand. We have both indulged in brief affairs before. I remember the thrill and the heightened emotions, but there was also the jealousy, stress and upheaval of our lives. Somebody was always hurt in the end. Was it really worth the trouble? Ultimately, I think not. I would actually rather spend my time loving the man I know so well, or at work, or even in the garden. I must have reached a time in my life where peace appeals more than excitement. My appetite for intimacy can wait until Victor gets home. It can’t be long now. In my mind, the green eyes close and those beloved nearly-black ones open instead. So, this is my choice and I won’t think of it any more. Now I have a book to write.

It’s probably not my best work, but I manage to keep some kind of focus and by late afternoon I judge today’s effort adequate at least. I step outside to my little garden for some weeding and inspecting. I nibble on the lilly pilly berries and collect a ripe paw-paw, some tomatoes, a bit of spinach and a couple of eggs from the chooks. The delicious sun seeps into my skin. I am trying to identify all the bird calls around me when I hear the soft whirr and click of the child-care van pulling up out the front and I go to greet my little Dylan. He is sleepy, but content. I pick him up and kiss his pudgy cheeks and he pushes me away, giggling. We go inside to make dinner.

I listen to the radio as I chop vegetables and discover what it was the Elders must have been discussing this morning. A large group of immigrants has applied to join our village. We are very nearly at our capacity and this group would push us over the limit. There are about twenty people and they came from overseas, from one of the countries in famine, and were settled in a new inland village in western Queensland. Life is not quite so easy there and understandably, they would prefer to be here where the soil is more fertile. Ours is one of the oldest and most successful village communities in the country. The Elders have proposed a number of options. We could deny the application; we could take half the group, although they want to stay together, and then declare the village closed; or we could accept the whole group, and make the necessary expansions to our infrastructure. There is going to be a meeting and a vote in four days’ time.

As we eat, I try to explain to Dylan a bit about the world outside: how we are salt-water people but there are also fresh-water people with very different lives, but he is drowsy and not in the mood for one of my lectures. Poor little thing. I sometimes forget how young he is in my eagerness to teach him about the world. It must be bedtime.


Today is the day of the village meeting and the people are a little agitated. I am at the markets, buying our rice, beans and tea, and all talk is of the application. Many of the youngsters are enthusiastic about the prospect of seeing some different faces in the village. Several people are apprehensive about the idea of building new accommodation and expanding the already large area we use. Every new cottage means more use of resources, longer walking time to get around the village and less habitat for the local flora and fauna. On the other hand, is it fair not to share our good fortune with others? There are many issues to consider and the voices at the market are significantly louder than usual. I drink coffee in the square and listen to the opinions, but I can’t decide how I will vote. Of course I worry about our wildlife; it is my life’s work after all, but what about the families trying to feed their children?

I pick up the shopping and walk up the hill, past the solar park, blinding in this sunshine, and into the quiet little street where my parents live. They are both gardening and I am amazed as always by their energy. They are still able to do their own shopping, but I know they appreciate it when I can save them from the uphill walk. We put the food away and sit around the veranda table. I ask them what they think about the immigrants. They can see the different points of view, but the passion they used to have about such moral issues is not what it was. My mother says she is old now and it is time to leave these decisions to sharper minds. Papà always has an opinion, even if he is unlikely to do anything about it these days. As an immigrant himself, he says he’s entitled to say we should only take the applicants on the condition that they work in the field of local environment preservation. This may be a reasonable idea, except that there are already plenty of people working in that field and they are unlikely to solve the intractable problem that more people simply put more strain on resources and mean more encroachment into habitats. However, I’m not getting into a debate with my father. He has spent almost fifty years helping to achieve the delicate balance of the life we have in Australia, and now he deserves all the peace he can get. Mamma too, of course. I kiss them goodbye and walk up the street with my shopping and some of their extra mangoes.


My yacht skims across the waves with a perfect wind, heading west on my way back to the bay. If I spend too many months on land the ocean beckons me to return, but after a couple of months at sea the euphoria of coming home is beyond compare. So much has happened on this trip that the time has passed very quickly, but the day I left our green cottage still seems like a long time ago. I remember Ruby and Dylan eating breakfast at the garden table, surrounded by lilly pilly trees and the sounds of the birds, and then I visualise us all together on the long, golden beach, lying in the shade of a pandanus palm. Soon.


As I look down the hill across the cottages at the sea, my thoughts turn to my husband. I wonder what he is doing now and how he would vote if he were here. I know Victor thinks there is already not enough water for our population. However he cannot stand to see anyone suffer, so he probably would want to accept the immigrants. There are so many angles to the question and I just cannot make up my mind. In the end I resolve to leave it to my impulse tonight at the meeting.

Here is our little green cottage. It’s looking a bit dusty, so after I put away the groceries I switch on the cleaning cycle and do some gardening while my house makes itself spotless. When it is finished the waste receptacle is full, so I take it to the corner of the street and empty it into the energy chute. After all this, it is time for Dylan to come home and then we have to get back to the square for the meeting. I have picked carrots for us to eat on the way. Luckily he must have napped at child-care today, so he’s chatty and full of energy. He walks the whole way and I only pick him up when we arrive, so that I don’t lose him in the crowd.

Everybody knows the issue, so without much preamble we get into the discussion. The opinions are more or less the same as the ones I heard earlier at the markets. Compassion versus practicality. Human rights versus the rights of nature. Uncle Birrung makes a long speech about the tradition and importance of sharing what we have and not being greedy with our privilege. One of the rangers says if we start expanding our village every time someone wants to join, habitats and wildlife corridors will inevitably be destroyed which could only lead to more extinctions. Life might be more difficult in the inland village, he says, but that is the immigrants’ challenge and with hard work they can find solutions. A teenager ventures her opinion that newcomers might make this village less boring.

Suddenly Dylan is speaking in his squeaky voice from my arms. “Why don’t we swap people? Some of us could go there and some of them could come here.” Everyone is quiet for a moment, and I understand, yes, that might work. Thinking aloud, I say that if all the immigrants came to our village, we could send a delegation of our own people to Queensland: maybe a mixture of young ones wanting adventure and some older people with the knowledge required to make a village work. They could even take some of our extra chickens and machines to make life a little easier. It wouldn’t even have to be forever. If some people wanted to swap back after, say, a year, we could work that out. If some of the immigrants had to return inland, at least they might have new skills to take back with them.

“But who would want to leave here?” the ranger says. Several younger people raise their hands, while those over thirty look at each other doubtfully. I consider the idea, but although I think Victor would probably say yes, I couldn’t make the decision without him. After a few moments, and much muttering, an elderly couple raise their hands. They have one of the best gardens in the village, so their expertise could definitely help the new community, but wouldn’t they miss their family? It’s then that I realise one of the youngsters who volunteered to leave is their granddaughter. Perfect! She could look after them if they needed her and vice versa. It could be an exciting new challenge for all of them. Uncle Birrung asks how many people approve this idea and about eighty percent raise their hands. He announces that the village news-cast will ask for applications of interest in this proposal and we will meet again next week to see where we stand. The mood is buoyant by the time the meeting finishes. Some villagers wander home and some stay for a chat and a few drinks in the square. Dylan is starting to fade, so I carry him back to our cottage. My wise little boy!

That night I dream about Liam. We are in the sea and he swims towards me with only his head visible. His eyes are like green lasers, burning my retinas and making my skin tingle.

“Come to Queensland with me. Bring Dylan. We can start a new life,” he says.

“But I like my old life,” I protest, as his hands touch my body under the water. We are lifted gently off the sand by the ocean swell, he pulls me close and everything feels warm and soft. We float back down and as my feet touch the sand, I know something is wrong. “Stop. This is ridiculous.” I am suddenly angry. He ignores my words, touches my face and smirks knowingly, which makes me so furious that I wake myself up.

The anger persists. What an inane dream! Where did it come from? Why would I jeopardise my perfect world for a pair of sleazy green eyes? I get out of bed to drink a glass of water and while I’m up I check on Dylan in his bed on the other side of the room. His serene little body calms me a little, but I know it will be a long time before I get back to sleep. I am still irritated at myself. Why does my brain sometimes seem determined to ruin my happiness? Maybe I am not meant to be happy? Maybe it is just not possible. I feel lonely in my bed and wish I could hear Victor breathing beside me. My thoughts annoy me more, because I know how irrational they are. I know it is not possible to be happy all the time. I know I actually am happy most of the time and I know that things generally seem worse than they really are at three o’clock in the morning. Everything will be fine, I keep telling myself over and over, until I hear the birds and know dawn is coming and at last slip into sleep.

About an hour later Dylan is by my bed prodding my face. I am exhausted, but at peace again, as I knew I would be. I pull him into the bed with me and suggest we have some quiet time before breakfast. He lies still for about three minutes, but then it seems it is time to get up. And so the day begins. Dylan goes to child-care and I work all morning, but after lunch, last night’s insomnia catches up with me. I need a siesta. It is hot, but under the fan I quickly fall asleep.


I’m woken by a hand on my waist. Sunshine sweeps through me and before I open my eyes I know. Victor is home! He lies next to me and we hold each other for a long time. I look into the night sky of his eyes, and I know I don’t want to be with anyone else ever again. We kiss and repeat the words of our own meaningless language. I almost forgot how good this feels! He tells me funny and scary stories about his trip in the Pacific islands. I tell him how my research is going, what Dylan has been doing and what is happening in the village. I explain about the immigrants’ application and the plan to send some of our people inland to the new village. I say it would be an amazing opportunity to help the newcomers and it could be very interesting and does he want to go?

He rolls me on top of him, kisses my eyelids and says, “I just got home. Let me enjoy it! We’ll think about it later, okay?” We spend the rest of the afternoon in bed, with the sun beating through the window and the air from the overhead fan drying our sweat. Before Dylan gets home there is just enough time for a quick shower. The anticipation of the imminent reunion makes both of us smile. How contagious is the exhilaration of a child! Now here is the van, here he comes, and he sees his father and jumps up and down on the spot and squeals. Victor picks him up and throws him in the air and he laughs and laughs, and I realise this is one of those moments I will surely remember forever. Together we make a special dinner, a Spanish tortilla with potatoes and eggs, and salad from the garden and our green cottage seems far too small to contain so much love and happiness within its walls.

The next day is Thursday, so Dylan is at home and we decide to ride our bikes to the beach. It is a long time since we had a family outing like this and it’s lovely. We work together on a sandcastle, then run into the water where Victor supports Dylan’s stomach while he paddles into my outstretched arms. This is the same place where my parents taught me to swim. The water is clear and just cool enough to be refreshing. When it starts to feel cold we splash out of the water and lie on our towels where the sand is dry and hot. After a few minutes Victor turns to me and asks if I really think we should move to the other village.

“Well,” I say, “I think it’s probably the right thing to do, don’t you? We have a lot of knowledge which could help them. And the ones who came here could learn so much. And they have already had so many struggles. Their lives would definitely be easier here.”

He is less enthusiastic than I’d expected, but agrees that we have the possibility to make a big difference in the immigrants’ lives and after what they’ve been through, they surely deserve some comfort.

“But you know, it’s not just you and Dylan I miss when I’m away. I love coming home to this place. Aren’t there are others who want to leave? Couldn’t we just send some of our chickens? Do we always have to be responsible for everyone, Ruby?” As I start to reply, he answers his own question. “Of course, where we see suffering or injustice, we should try to stop it…. and for sure it would be educational for Dylan to see what life is like for the fresh-water people. We all need challenges in our lives, I guess.”

Now his questions have brought me new doubts. Victor spends so much time at sea; is it fair to take away his sanctuary? We have had our share of tough times in the past, we have done plenty of work for our community and what is life about, if not to taste the good times? There are others going. The immigrants don’t necessarily need us to go too. And what about Dylan? Would the disruption of leaving home upset him or would it be an opportunity for learning? Both, probably. It was his idea, so maybe this new experience is what he really wants? “Let’s ask him,” Victor says.

He is lying in the sun, half-asleep, an expression of bliss on his face. I lean over him.

“Dylan? You remember how you came up with that idea to swap some people from here for some others from that village in Queensland? What would you think about the three of us moving there?” He doesn’t open his eyes. “So three of them could come here and we could all try out a different kind of life?” He looks up and considers the question.

“If you and Dad are going, I want to go too, but I don’t really want to try a different kind of life. I like it here.” I am a little surprised to feel a wave of relief and Victor grins broadly. Me too, I think. I suppose we are salt-water people and it is here that we belong. It occurs to me that this choice, like many choices, is not likely to be critical at a fundamental level. If we moved, there would probably be both hardships and rewards, and if we stayed, there would probably be both regrets and gratitude. There are positive and negative aspects to almost everything, but I realise that honestly, at this moment, I don’t want to go anywhere else. This is exactly where I want to be.


This is the last chapter of my book “Futures”, which investigates different versions of life in 2050. You can read the epilogue here.

The Bigger Picture

Oddly specific. Universally applicable. Submit your writing to biggerpicturemedium@gmail.com.

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Emma Briggs

Written by

Activist, hang-gliding assistant, writer & former sailor, journalist & clown. Debut poetry collection on sale tomorrow for 1 week only: https://t.co/zW5DIqPHiD?

The Bigger Picture

Oddly specific. Universally applicable. Submit your writing to biggerpicturemedium@gmail.com.

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