Fireworks and Shark Island

New Year’s Eve always carries anticipation that is close to magic, most probably because of the romantic ideal of that midnight kiss. However the evening often whittles down to a party with friends or a glass of champagne with family, watching the fireworks on television.

I had never thought much of going out for New Year’s Eve, having seen the bystanders in London shivering in the dark for hours just to watch a handful of fireworks. It wasn’t in London, but Sydney I was queuing in the evening sun, entertaining my six year old cousin of English birth, Australian habitat and somehow American accent. I saw the relaxed lifestyle of the country; it wasn’t rigorous like the British when it comes to queuing, but was merry with singing as the two storey boat travelled between shore and island.

Named after its shape, Shark Island looked like a giant had carved a segment of a coast and plonked it in the middle of Sydney Harbour for their own amusement. We perched on a picnic blanket overlooking the beach. The Opera House bowed with respect to the Bridge crested in lights and wearing the Ying/Yang symbol. The Island occupiers toasted over campfires to the jewelled criss-cross of metal. When a plane spelt ‘Love Jesus’ in the sky not a controversial word was heard.

Though the year had tried to sprint its way to the end ever since the start, it seemed to dawdle as the lights got brighter and the sky went black for the last time. Then a number took shape on the bridge, and the countdown began. As the number got lower, the island grew louder. We screamed a welcome to the New Year, and it replied with a bang, not the dull thuds I’d heard on television, but bombshell explosions. All I recall of the fireworks was the heat singeing my eyelids and the light; my soft face illuminated in awe.

We queued for as many hours on the return but it seemed quicker; this year also started with a sprint. On the boat, a couple of Kiwis demanded we sing Tiny Dancer by Elton John with them, because our accents proved we were well educated in all English music. They serenaded us with classics from Robbie Williams and then wandered off into the night, away from the rush for taxis. We caught one that was too small; my father and uncle jogged for an hour while the rest of us got a ride to our hotel. Like the fireworks, all I remember of the city on that journey home were the white lights. They were artificial, noticeably grey. They lacked magic just like the fireworks on my television.