It seemed as if the entire town had turned out for the occasion. The council chambers were now standing room only; beyond, the townspeople spilled out into the street, muttering in hushed anticipation. The men stood stock-still, the women fanned themselves in a vain attempt to escape the stifling heat and the children atop their shoulders, usually tuckered out by now, were wide-eyed as they peered over the throng. It hadn’t been since the days of the war that the sleepy town of Mundurah had seen such turnout.

The crowd fell silent as the Mayor rose and began to speak. Such a thing was unusual in itself, but this wasn’t a normal day.

“It is the decision of this council that by-law 571, with regard to development planning, has received majority support and will come into effect. I know there are many of you who oppose this, but I ask that you try to look to the future and see the benefits - this town has a bigger, brighter future ahead of it and it isn’t going to be 1960 forever.”

The mayor, wiping his brow on his sleeve, was soon drowned out by boos and jeers, his voice faltering in front of the crowd as the tumult carried out to the street. The decision had been made 5-4 - not exactly decisive, but in the end it didn’t matter. By-law 571 gave developers the go-ahead to build high-rise apartments along the town’s foreshore where for as far back as memory reached there had previously only been small homes, and for the local estuary to be dredged and deepened to allow boats to enter.

There were those who opposed, those who continued to fight, the shared memories of endless days spent paddling in the estuary bed as youngsters - of feeling the salt on their naked skin - still strong in their minds. Letters upon letters upon letters would be written by the townspeople; the post office had quite a time trying to cope with the sheer volume, and even had to hire a second postie after the first threatened in no uncertain terms to quit outright unless something gave. The phones rang off the hook at the council; in the minds of the townspeople, there was every chance that the councilors and the mayor would see reason eventually.

But alas, time would drift on and progress would be assured. One by one the old homes, so steeped in time and place, would each be lost, torn down and carried off piece by piece - ostensibly to make way for bigger and better things. The local kids saw and felt the changes taking place - felt on some level the fabric of the town around them stretching and shifting - but unlike their elders, never could truly appreciate what had come before; ever-adaptable, they soon found other places to gather, other places in which to paddle and drift and seek relief from the summer heat. In time, it would seem to them as if the boats that sliced up the surface of the estuary day after day had simply always been there. In a sense, it was history rewritten in the modern day; so many people and so many stories lost, not with the stroke of a pen but with the passing of time and the gradual ebb of memory, buried forever in estuary silt.