Ruby Anderson

It's early afternoon, Sunday, May the 30th, 2021.

On the coast of Western Australia, gale force winds churn the waters of Durian Bay into a turbid frenzy.

The 40-knot gusts are multidirectional, blowing, it seems, from every angle, from all points of the compass.

The result is confusion and chaos, an angry, frothing maelstrom.

Waves barrel into each other, their foamy crests merging and erupting in vertical blasts of spray.

Though we are just two nautical miles from shore, the rocky headland is obscured behind a shroud of sea fog.

On one of the small islands that guard the entrance to the bay, the glow of a lighthouse perforates the mist.

A faint white pinprick in the all-consuming grey.

On calmer days, this stretch of coast is popular with sailors and surfers.

But nobody would venture out in conditions like these.

And today, there isn't a soul out there.

At least, there shouldn't be.

But four kilometres out to sea, beyond the reef that skirts the bay's wide mouth, a pair of red life jackets are visible against the side of a surging five-metre swell.

41-year-old Glenn Anderson and his daughter Ruby, just 11 years old.

Glenn reaches for his daughter and pulls her into him, seconds before a massive wave rolls over their heads, forcing them both under.

They emerge, gasping and disoriented, the whites of their eyes gleaming in the murky half-darkness.

With one hand gripping Ruby's life jacket, Glenn scans the debris that floats around them, searching for something buoyant to hold onto.

Glenn shoves one foot into the flipper, which luckily is the right size.

Then he lifts his head and begins frantically looking for their boat amid the rollicking waves.

There it is, about 10 meters away, lurching up and down on the heavy swell.