A Family Ritual (QCST Trial)
In Year 12 we had three trials for the infamous QCST, or Queensland Core Skills Test. It’s somewhat akin to an exit exam and is (rather wrongly) thought to be a killer. One quarter of the exam is the Writing Task which provides three pages of stimulus material and requires you to write around 600 words based on it. The stimulus is pretty broad with about a dozen small bits and generally two or three main themes that link them together. My first two trials were appalling but the third was pretty good and scored a 1- and 2+ for the two criteria. This is roughly A/A- and is very good for the QCST.
The text here is exactly what I wrote for that third trial. One important thing to note: It is not factual. While it is based on fact, it is not word-for-word true. As a result, it should be read as a fictitious piece and any factual errors disregarded. I only had two hours to write it, after all!
I grew up on the beach. Our annual migration, a ritual spanning three generations, refueled and rekindled the family’s spirits after each grueling winter. Three generations gathered in the small island retreat that my grandfather built. It was our second home. Three months out of every twelve, it was our home.
Mali Lošinj, our picturesque getaway, was kept in relative secrecy by the locals. Nestled in amongst the chain of sunken mountains off the coast of then Yugoslavia, Lošinj was an Adriatic paradise. The ferry from Rijeka was greeted regularly by the dense conifer forests and the perfectly preserved beaches. Pebbles, smooth as soap lined the shallow, clear waters. Centuries of tides had polished them soft and round. With the dense smogs of northern Europe merely distant memories, only the sweet pines and salty beaches touched the nostrils. Only the sounds of rustling leaves and chattering seagulls and the infrequent splash of water were audible. It was magical.
Secluded in the tiny Italian-founded settlement of Artatore, our house was, by European standards, comfortable. At the peak of the summer break, it would house parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins from all corners of the country. Even my uncle’s second wife from Zagreb came. Neither I, nor my mother, had spent a single summer elsewhere. Every winter was complemented by a trip to LoÅ¡inj. It was the way of things.
Surrounded by smaller, unsettled islands, we made a habit of picnicking and bathing at sea. The small rubber dinghy with its four horsepower motor, more that adequate on the mirror-flat Adriatic, carried the family from one island to another. Because of the rocky seabed, one could see more that three metres into the deep blue waters. Devoid of sharks or water parasites, the seas were ours.
A few kilometres south of Artatore lay the main town of Mali Lošinj. Akin to many of its Aegean counterparts, it stretched up into the rocky heights, a myriad of steps connecting the many small streets. So close to Italy, it was the smell of woodfired pizza and oregano that most dominated the atmosphere. Cries came from the markets mixed with the sound of a dozen varied languages and accents from around Europe. Closer to the sea, the elite resort suburb of Cikat with the only sand beach on the island attracted more tourists. A mere ten minutes from the town centre, it provided a change of scenery for those who desired it. All this blanketed in a vast forest. It was beautiful.
No more.
A county so peaceful and prosperous based primarily on brotherhood and unity, ironically could only exist in isolated fragments. The hate that tore Croatia and Mali LoÅ¡inj from Yugoslavia and destroyed the Balkan peninsula didn’t care for the family tradition honoured since the Second World War. The childhood on the pebble-strewn beaches common to three generations is a fading memory. The house that witnessed the growth of a family lies an empty shell - inaccessible. Without the ritual bringing the family together it slowly disperses further. To New Zealand, to Australia, to Germany, to America - without the annual ritual, like Yugoslavia, the family fragments.
LoÅ¡inj is still beautiful. It’s still magical. The ritual is gone.
Copyright © 1999 Andrej Bece
