In this first summer night in the year of the itch, I watch the rain clouds collide and part in a dance as old as memory, and I stretch out my hand towards the shrouded moon, the skin between my fingers once again as smooth and translucent as that of a newborn.

It started with an itch. Not a big one, not one that made you want to scratch yourself to the bone. More like the remnant of a mosquito bite — irritating, but soon forgotten. A brief scratch was relief enough, and I thought no more about it.

But then the itch grew more insistent. And when I scratched, I drew blood. Soon, even that no longer satisfied.

"Hey Joe, got fleas or something, mate?" Tony grunted as he hoisted a panel of pearl oysters on board for cleaning.

"Bloody hope not," I said, reaching inside my t-shirt to scratch a spot close to my right armpit. The itch migrated down my right side, around my back, up my left side, stopping just underneath my heart. This was crazy. Maybe miniscule biting insects were invading me. It itched so badly I longed to stick my arms into the cleaning machine and let the brushes rub me raw.

I had lived in Broome all my life, first playing in the shallows of Roebuck Bay with my mother, then chasing mud crabs with my friends in the mangrove flats. Later, I starting working the boats, hauling up oysters for cleaning or turning, or going out in prawning trawlers — doing whatever work I could get that involved the sea, because that was what I was bred for. I followed my ancestors by choosing the life they knew, a life that brought them together, whether they were Malays or Japanese, Manilamen or Englishmen, whether they were masters or servants, dirt poor or pearl wealthy. Their blood ran through my veins and showed on my skin.

At lunchtime, when our oyster cleaning tender was tied alongside the main boat, I went to the bathroom and took my shirt off in front of the mirror. The skin on my torso was a mottled red. Inflamed patches alternated with pale spots several shades lighter than my normal color.

Tony lumbered in, smelling of sweat and engine oil. "You look like you fell into a pit of bull ants."

"Never had this before." I squirted a dollop of sunscreen into my palm. Our employers were sun conscious, dutifully depositing bottles of sunscreen in various locations all over the boat. Hardly anyone used them, apart from the pale college kids from the south who came to work the boats during their vacations, lured by the spell of balmy, booze-filled nights in this Australian pearling town by the Indian Ocean.

The sunscreen stung my skin. I washed it off again.