WILLY IS A young Palm Island boy, full of life and with more than a fair serve of natural chutzpah. His grandmother, Aunty M, whose house I’m camped in, tells me he’s good at maths as well as footy. Willy wants to play for the Cowboys when he grows up, and for most of my stay on his island is glued to the PlayStation, selecting teams, taking passes, tackling. His triumphant yell comes every 10 minutes, “And he’s through!” (In Willy’s Bwlkman accent, “through” comes out as a cross between “sroo” and “truu”.)

I quiz him. Adult attention is a gift at the age of 10, even in the guise of interrogation.