31st August 1945
Old Arthur swore he could tell a Fremantle winter by the angle the gulls flew and the flavour of the chips. On 31 August 1945, the gulls were doing artistic loops and the chips tasted like end‑of‑an‑era—extra salty. Down at the wharf, families waved as the Yanks packed up their floating tin cigars and headed off.
“Reckon they’ll miss our beer?” asked Nora, elbowing Arthur.
“Reckon our beer will miss them,” he said, watching sailors return last‑minute souvenirs: a borrowed fishing net, a barstool, and—mysteriously—a garden gnome painted in US Navy grey.
A quokka, who’d hitched an optimistic ferry from Rottnest, eyed the scene like a union rep auditing lunch breaks. The band struck up Waltzing Matilda but drifted into something jazzy after a trumpeter remembered he’d learned swing from a submariner who could fix a torpedo and a trombone in the same afternoon.
Locals swapped tales: the time an American politely asked for “a flat white” and got a puzzled lecture on wall paint; the time a sailor brought fresh oranges to a school and the kids briefly believed he was a wizard.
As the sub slipped seaward, Arthur raised his hat.
“Cheers, fellas. Thanks for keeping the sea monsters nervous.”
Nora sniffed. “Sea monsters?”
“Japanese shipping, love. And the occasional hangover.”
The gulls kited higher. The quokka decided Fremantle wasn’t hiring and hopped back toward the ferry queue. The crowd thinned, a breeze ruffled the harbour, and Fremantle felt slightly roomier, like when you finally put the Christmas decorations away.
“Back to quiet nights?” Nora asked.
Arthur listened—wharf creaks, a buoy bell, someone shouting for extra vinegar.
“Not a chance,” he smiled. “This is Freo.”
* as depicted by AI - may not factually be correct