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By Nicholas Angel

Winner of the Australian/Vogel's Literary Award 2003.

With goals of relocating to a home by way of the ocean haunting their each day, Millvan and his spouse, Michelle, proprietors of a riverside estate in a small outback farming neighborhood, fight with drought, acquaintances, adversaries and the wrenchingly popular rural cycle of desire and despair.

Drown them within the Sea tells a compellingly sincere tale of the demanding situations and hardships of farming existence in Australia. In shiny, very important language, Nicholas Angel captures either devastated panorama and human hope during this powerfully genuine evocation of lifestyles at the land.

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Extra resources for Drown Them in the Sea

Sample text

But now they crept back into his mind. To Rawlings Arbour was nothing more than a little word on a page with bank letterhead saying ‘default’. The white house on the hill didn’t fit on that page and Murray was nowhere in the fine print. That was the set-up. The banks were always allowed to point to their fine print but they never let Millvan point to his. Murray was in Millvan’s fine print. He held reservations in fine print for Terry and Michelle too. It made him angry. The white house on the hill was something he ought to be able to point to.

He was very jovial and it made Millvan suspicious. ‘Not bad,’ he told him. ‘A bit early to tell. ’ The banker shrugged this off. ‘How many acres did you pull off? Must be stubble everywhere. I remember last year we shot twelve good boars off the stubble over on Willy Gumby’s place . ’ Millvan knew what he was getting at now. ‘I bet it was a crop all right. I’ve heard! Too much trash for the headers, thrashing grain out the back . . ’ ‘Sorry mate, I’ve got two blokes that shoot on the place already,’ said Millvan.

An Aboriginal barman was keeping him quiet. When Millvan sat down he realised just how tired he was. The anger and the nerves had gone out of him. Now he felt stripped down, hung-over and plain tired. Colin looked up over his paper at Millvan but didn’t put it down. ‘I’ve got a top-notch mob of calves for you in western New South Wales—Santa Gertrudas,’ he said, his sharp eyes flicking from Millvan to the paper. ‘Oh no, I—’ ‘You don’t want them? ’ The drunk yelled out something about the Wallabies to them.

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