Well-shaped gutters are running counter to the incoming tide when we arrive early at Hat Rock. This looks good for whiting. Ben, my thirteen-year-old, bait-box strapped to his waist, fishing rod in hand, scrambles barefoot out of the ute. His schoolmate, Simon Heng, has the plastic buckets for holding our catch. It’s taken complex negotiations to reach this point before Simon’s parents could bring themselves to allow Simon to sleep over last night. Where the Hengs come from, it’s unthinkable that their child could enjoy the hospitality of the Deputy Mayor and not have to reciprocate in some unpalatable way.…