It was my grandpa who lured Old Methuselah out from the tannic depths of the lake. We were fishing for marron in the shallow waters of a small bay beside the dam wall, the jarrah forest at our back. The water dropped beneath the dam wall, and grandpa tossed the meat tied to a string into the deeper water, slowly dragging it in. I can still see the wet, wiry hairs on the backs of his hands as he murmured ‘Oh boy' at the sight of the hulking marron, following the meat. Old Methuselah lurked, scarred and ancient, claws raised in defence, rolling across the lake floor. But we were never able to ca