Open Writing

We pull back the curtains of our home for the winter and there they are, the birds, all lined up on the balcony overlooking the bay, parakeets, lorikeets and rosellas, demanding food. The kookaburras woke us at 6.00am, just on dawn, with their hysterical laughter, and now these brightly coloured, clamouring creatures gaze in, hungrily, one thinks of Hitchcock and “The Birds.'' Then we look further across, to the edge of the bay, and see the pelicans coming in to land like Boeing 747s, their webbed feet dropping like undercarriages.

Here we are in Port Stephens and nothing has changed in our second floor flat, since we left it a year ago. Our home away from home. In the mornings we can sit on the balcony enjoying the first coffee of the day, as we watch the boats sail back and forth. In the evening, glass of wine in hand, we return and feel the warm balmy air, while gazing at the brilliance of the stars in the jet black sky. Not a bad place to spend the winter.

But where is Port Stephens? It is a bit off the beaten track. You follow the Pacific Highway, which leads to Cairns and Brisbane and the more commercialised holiday resorts, then you leave it, turning eastwards and heading for the Tasman. It’s a big harbour, much bigger than Sydney harbour, but its shallow entrance, between the headlands, Yacaaba and Tomarree has prevented it being developed commercially. It’s a place for fishing boats, private yachts and the home of several pods of dolphins, fairy penguins and turtles. Charter boats operate all year round, taking folk out to watch the dolphins and to swim with them, if the boom nets are lowered. During June and July, when the humpback whales leave Antarctic waters to breed in the warmer waters of Byron Bay, whale boats head out to sea and you can enjoy the whales’ antics, standing on their tails to watch you or diving deep to show off their flukes. Sea legs are needed out in the Tasman though, but it is well worth the trip.

We walk everywhere while we are in Port Stephens, It is our time to get fit. Across the road from the flat is the Coast Guard station, now manned by volunteers. A stiff ten minute walk up a steep hill will bring you to it and there you can visit the craft shop or enjoy a cappuccino in the café while you gaze up and down the bay and enjoy the view. Further afield Tomaree headland beckons. It is a six km walk to its foot and then a steep climb, aided by scaffolding and ladders, in true Joe Brown fashion, (these Australians know how to build tracks in impossible places,) to the top. On the cantilevered viewing platform you can look down on sea eagles or up the coast towards Brisbane, with miles of sand and surf pounding beneath you. Once down again, you can ease your knee-wobbling legs at Shoal Bay, the holiday resort where we eat Sunday lunch under large sun umbrellas, at up-market cafes by the edge of the bay, cray fish, prawns, crisp salads and the like. It isn’t a bad life.

The commercial area is in the other direction, a twenty minute walk over a little headland to Nelson Bay. Here the fishing fleet berths and the charter boats tie up and it is from here that I will take you for just one trip across the bay and further afield, for this is where my story begins.

We board a small boat, not one of the big ones full of Japanese tourists, just a little one, six passengers and the captain. We are off to the other side of the Bay, to the National park and the Myall River and lakes. We will be away all day but I can promise you it will be worth it.

The captain edges out into the bay and for an hour we zigzag our way across it, avoiding the sand banks and picking up the pods of dolphins who ride our boom wave. We are low in the water and see them at close quarters They seem to ask us to join them. The shadow of a turtle appears in front of us, we give him room to pass and fairy penguins, for all the world like baby ducks, sail past us. The gulls scream at us and the stately pelicans, or are they ungainly, ignore us. There is a blue sky above and we can see the surf breaking beyond the heads.

An hour later and we are edging into the mouth of the Myall River. The bird life changes. The pelicans are still there, but ibis, white heron, snake necked cormorants, reaching out in all directions, take over from the sea birds. We moor at Tea Gardens, with its bridge leading to Hawks Nest, and stretch our legs, before re-embarking and moving on up the Myall River.

The captain gives us a running commentary, telling us of the early aborigines, of the tree milling days and of the cargo ships which dropped their ballast of stones, forming channels in the river before taking on board their valuable cargoes of hard wood. He tells us of the advent of dairy farming and of the forming of the National Park. He knows the names of the plants and the trees and the birds which flash about in their shimmering greens, reds and blues and he points out the odd kangaroo, well hidden by the trees, watching us from the banks.

We vie for binoculars and spy sea eagles and their nests in the tops of the trees and then we pull into a little jetty and the captain invites us to take a walk in the real bush, while he makes billy tea. I am wary of snakes lurking in the undergrowth and make sure someone is in front of me, as I scuffle my feet and make the ground vibrate, but none come near me and I am surrounded by tall palm trees. Refreshed by hot tea and home-made scones we set off again. Now the people on board settle down in their own favourite corners and look out at the river. It closes in on us, surrounding us with jungle and cloaking us with its silence. We do not disturb it. We look at the reflections of the golden wattle in the water, water as still and clear as a mirror. Our wake moves out behind us and ducks move from the bank, kingfishers perch on branches and the cormorant extends his searching neck. It has an eerie but relaxing effect on us and we are aware how close to nature we are.

Then it is gone. We are out into a big lake, an inland sea, we can’t see the other end, but our captain knows where he is going. He opens throttle and we surge ahead, heading for the river’s outlet, leading to other lakes. But what is this? A car ferry! The highway from Hawks Nest has been following us all the way and is now turning inland to join the Pacific Highway, on its way to Brisbane. We pull into the bank and head up the steps to the restaurant. This little holiday settlement at the back of beyond is the place for the bush walker, the fisherman and the boatee. Here we settle down to an excellent lunch and try to outwit the honey eaters, with their bright blue slashes around their eyes, who try to steal our food from us. No such thing as timidity for these cheeky birds, everything in Australia seems to be cheeky. A wander around the settlement and a look of longing at that nice clean swimming pool and the captain calls us aboard as we have to watch the tide.

It is a slow trip back down river, with the tide pushing against us. The captain lays out hors d’oeuvres and wine and we chat amongst ourselves, swapping life stories which seem to be slightly larger than life, until we begin to reach the bay and we retreat to our own private corners. The sun is setting and we watch, silently, as it puts on its show of ever changing colours.

The sky darkens and the evening star starts to shine as the waves rock us into the swell of the ocean. The moon raises herself above the horizon. Her silver sheen illuminates the bay and the headlands stand out as dark backdrops. Her path guides us home and the stars come out in their millions. A perfect day in this wonderful world of ours.

Tomorrow the grandchildren arrive and it will be surfing and riding the boom nets, so let us enjoy this bit of tranquillity.

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