THE HYDROLOGIST

We found him sitting in an experimental shaft dug into the wall of an opal mine. It was just above the water level of an abandoned cutting that had flooded when the miner excavated for opal.  The hydrologist was reading the paper; several books lay strewn beside him.

 Above the cut, the opal field shimmered under fifty-degree heat. I was gasping, longing for a cool place.

  We had heard about a flooded mineshaft used as a swimming pool and so went in search. We found not only the lake but also a man who had seen the ideal spot to while away a few hours on a Sunday. We swam and played in the water thanking the miner who excavated the mine only to lose it to the rising water table. We speculated about the fortune he might have missed.

The hydrologist was a quiet man; his greeting lacked enthusiasm.  My husband, Bruce, is a hail-fellow-well-met kind of person.  Eventually, the hydrologist thawed and related something of his story.  He had begun life in Europe studying hydrology and gaining a degree.  He decided to immigrate to Australia, hoping for a better experience, settling in the north of Western Australia.

Poor English made him a laughing stock among his Aussie workmates. He became more isolated and hurt and withdrew from society. Nursing his hurts, he arrived on the opal field mining for opal.

He became the unofficial keeper of the swimming pool, cleaning up the used nappies, empty hair shampoo bottles and other debris left by careless users of the swimming pool.  The area degraded with rubbish made one feel sick at the sight and not want to swim.  When the place became too bad, the hydrologist would set off some dynamite and blow the pool out.  It would be clean again for a while.

The hydrologist found many nationalities on the opal field, and he no longer stood out as a freak.  He had found a niche where he was accepted.

 The community was settled by many people from different walks of life, such as he.  He was not considered different and nobody bothered him.   He was able to be himself, and so he quietly settled into the community.

 Bruce felt privileged to hear the hydrologist’s story. 

We were misfits ourselves, arriving on the field to mine, not knowing a soul and even less about mining.  We were the laughing stock of the community. We were misfits because our three co-miners were Aboriginals. One could be ant nationality in the world and be accepted but to associate with the indigenous community you became a misfit.  We became the butt of many jokes because of whom we associated with and because we were greenhorn miners.

As for us, being shunned was no big deal; we would only be there a short time, then we would leave. Like many others of our ilk, we were in search of a fortune, so being a misfit was a small price to pay.

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