The sea urchin's test

I grew up on a farm in a dry husk, set in the middle of nowhere. In those young heady days of mine, the sea was an entity of dreams; a seldom experienced sensory delight, and a memory, since the cresting waves, expansive ocean and the beach were not readily accessible. Due to this geographical glitch, the sea became something of a wonder lust to me; something that even today, makes me truly believe that I could not live without being within a short driving distance from the sea, or at least, a good sized body of water.

While the sea was too far for me to enjoy on a regular basis, my Grandparents lived on Kangaroo Island, which was many miles away. My brother and I, if we were lucky, usually visited them once a year.

My Grandparents had an expansive rural property, consisting largely of cereal crops and Suffolk sheep. Their old homestead stood atop a crest along the dusty road that hugged the island's northern coastline. In the summer, the coastal hills were carpeted in golden wheat fields that swayed in the nautical breeze, while large ships and tankers inched silently along the horizon; setting my imagination to wonder about the countries those boats were heading. What was the cargo they hauled? What did the crew do aboard the ship? Did they ever get sea sick? Were the crew leaving home with heavy hearts, or drifting toward their homelands with joyous smiles upon their faces and a special glint in their eyes?

During my time on the island, the sight of ships comforted me, as there was a slight feeling of disconnection with the rest of the world, which was in some ways a relief and in other ways disconcerting. Consequently, I could often be found sitting quietly on Gran's shady veranda wall, sending my whimsical thoughts toward the horizon and my daydreams out to sea.

My cousins lived within arms reach of my Grandparents, so whenever we visited, we would always have the opportunity to play with our cousins.

My cousins were all younger than I. The eldest of them was perhaps three years younger. I always felt that their lives were so idyllic - imagine living permanently beside the sea.

Whenever possible, I would steal away through the wheat fields to the secluded rocky bay that lay hidden at the front of my Gran's property, and wander in the company of my own self and the ocean song.

There were always mounds of seaweed strewn across the beach, but the large rocks that had collected there, made the bay dangerous and unswimmable. I enjoyed returning to that spot, regardless, as there were all kinds of sea treasures to be found in the rock pools, tangled in the seaweed, and stuck between the rocks themselves.

Collecting shells was a favourite past time of mine when visiting my Grandparents. The shells were not only beautiful and various in their uniqueness, but they also provided me with a sea connection during my absence; the salty aroma of my sea treasures bringing images of the sea; the island, and the gentle ocean lullaby, flooding right into my home in the dry husk, set in the middle of nowhere.

Finding a perfect, unscathed large shell lying within the questionable shelters of the rocky bay was always a delight, and somewhat of a miracle. The shell's survival was considered by me, to be a testament to its fate in my collecting it and looking after it, since manoeuvring its way through those unforgiving waters, without dashing itself upon the rocks seemed quite an achievement.

I remember one day, Gran took my brother and I for a walk to the rocky bay, along with our two oldest cousins, Bethany and Nicole. Bethany and Nicole didn't go down to the rocky bay all that often, as far as I was aware. They were too young to go there on their own and besides, the ocean was always there; its accessibility and permanence was taken for granted, and as far as I knew, none of my cousins collected shells.

It goes without saying, I arrived at the rocky bay with basket in hand and eyes cast down scanning the rocky coastline for shells. Bethany and Nicole, chased each other, giggling and jumping along the rocks. My brother searched in the seaweed to see what the tide had carried in for discovery. There was always plenty of old netting and floats, tin cans, old shoes and pieces of driftwood. I can't remember him ever finding anything overly exciting.

On this particular day, as my cousins ran amok, Bethany chanced upon a huge, perfectly formed and exquisitely detailed sea urchin's test. I was green with envy. In my opinion, she could have cared less about it - I was the avid shell collector, so it should have been MINE!

Gran went on about how "lucky" Bethany was to have found such a rare jewel in the rocky bay, and warned her to take care with it. Gran offered to look after it for her, but Bethany, so concerned that her sister might steal it from her, chose to hold the sea egg herself.

Bethany continued to scramble over the rocks, taunting her younger sister with the sea egg which bobbed and bounced in her hand. Nicole could not even get a close look at it before Bethany whisked it from her sight and stormed away giggling. Out of frustration Nicole threw a large piece of slippery seaweed at Bethany, and I remember watching it flip and flop through the air. Bethany turned just in time to see the slimy missile careening toward her and ducked out of the way, but the bay does not easily excuse those who are careless with its gems. While steadying herself, Bethany unfortunately trod unsteadily on a slick rock, slipping and letting go of the precious sea egg. I watched, seemingly in slow motion, as the sea egg dashed against the rocks, before being crushed by the full force of Bethany's collapsing body.

It broke my heart to think that the sea egg, which had somehow conquered the great ocean and survived the dangerous coastline before coming to rest in the rocky bay, was not ten minutes in human hands, before it was destroyed.

Bethany was not hurt by her fall, but when she saw her shattered treasure, a great wail sprang from the depths of her heart and echoed around the rocky bay, for she could see what she had done, and understood what she had lost. Bethany sobbed for the remainder of our walk in the bay, and frantically searched for a sea egg to replace the one that was no more, but her search was fruitless, and the five of us walked back through the golden wheat fields to the homestead, in silence.

Over the years that followed that incident, I often found unscathed sea eggs in the rocky bay, and I cherished each one as a reflection of the one once beheld and lost, but my finds were small and never as brilliant as the perfect giant that was Bethany's for those brief few moments. I have also wondered whether perhaps fate had intervened in that moment, not to punish Bethany for her carelessness, for she was but a child, but to demonstrate to our young minds that such things are precious, or perhaps it was something more...perhaps such things should never be taken from their natural habitat, for they are a part of the circle of life. So if turning into the pulp of the earth and grit of the ocean floor is part of that cycle, then Bethany merely hastened that process along.

For pictures of the area, check this out.

Submitted to Scribbit's May Write Away Contest.

The Coorong

The Coorong in South Australia is a magical place; the movie Storm Boy was filmed there some 30 years ago.

I was first introduced to The Coorong many moons ago, when my parents took my brother and I for a drive there one weekend, but I only became enchanted by The Coorong, after my class took our tenth grade school trip there; hiking and camping in the wilderness, for three tranquil and mystical days.

The Coorong is an isolated coastal spot along The Younghusband Peninsular – a virtual fingers width strip of sandy terrain that separates the Australian mainland from the Southern Ocean. So pristine, beautiful and remote is this spot, that one might think, upon visiting here, that one had slipped into a vortex of time; a black spot on the radar, or a parallel universe, where humankind simply does not exist, and one actually feels compelled in wanting to keep it that way.

Our school group, consisting of twelve students and two teachers, travelled to The Coorong in May 1988, which is late Fall in Australia. I remember the air being crisp, but the sky appearing crystal clear, thus enabling the sun to radiate through our fleecy layers; warming our backs, during the day.

The smell of the ocean sailed upon the breeze, as it travelled inland on a ship made of salt spray. In detecting its familiar scent, we knew the lure of the sea was close. We could feel it in the rumbling, fresh, south wind. We could see the signs in the plant life that were rapidly reducing in height; tall gums becoming scraggly mallee trees, which later transformed into a mass of salt bushes. We could even hear it; seagulls calling to each other in that lonely mournful way they do, as they circle and glide upon the wind.

Our first contact with The Coorong, upon exiting our bus, was to stand at the waters edge of a dark lagoon and board a tin motor boat in which to cross over to the other side, where we would slip into a world where the very concept of time seemed out of place.

I remember we pitched our tents just before dusk on the first day, while one of our teachers built a campfire. We prepared our food and ate together; faces glowing with the light and warmth of the flames. The horizon turned shell pink as the sun slunk behind the dunes, and we watched the full moon makes its nightly ascent, gleaming in the clear twilight sky, like a pearl.

Later, on that first evening, hastily blooming clouds moved quickly across the star littered sky, like black ink dripped into a glass of water. A storm sprang forth, but was so distant from our vantage spot, that we were able to sit, unthreatened, with the best seats in the house, witnessing the storm rattling and sparking across the land, like a battle scene - it passed quickly, sparing us from a drenching.

We awoke the next morning to yet another day of sapphire skies, and with heavy packs swinging rhythmically, like pendulums upon our backs, we scaled the first of a series of dunes. From the top, we heard the orchestrating waves crashing against sodden golden sands, a turbulent ocean expanded before us, all the way to Antarctica, and a succession of frothy white-caps crested and cascaded against the shore.

We descended down the frail face of a wind sculpt dune, green tufts of coastal grasses protruded randomly from loose soil. We appeared to be the only people on that lonely beach; our footprints trailing behind us like we were followed by a procession of barefooted ghosts – perhaps we were. I could feel the abrasive mix of ancient shells, pulverized stone, soil and other debris, massaging and tickling the heels and soles of my feet.

Pressed into the damp beach soil and scattered amongst the dry dune grasses were remnants of cockle shells; sand blasted and weather beaten, scorched white and brittle, like old porcelain; the inescapable effect of time and brutal coastal conditions. We came across a makeshift path and commenced our climb, it was not properly marked, but rather simply eroded by the movement of past visitors who knew the way – I wonder if they realised that they would be phantom guides for so many.

Near the top of the dune, in a shallow gully, was a wide pile of discarded cockle shells. We were told the Ngarrindjeri people had left them there. This knowledge made everything stand still for me, and only the sound of the eternal wind batting my ears, could be heard – yet more ghosts – they were everywhere. There were probably a thousand stories in the very earth we stood upon… every ground is sacred.

From there we travelled further inland where the plant life grew denser and the ground became solid and rocky. Our clothing snagged upon jutting twigs, protruding aggressively from the vegetation, and three cornered jacks spiked our tender, sand polish feet; forcing us to abandon our urchin-like wanderings, in favour of civilized footwear.

We arrived at our campsite an hour or two before dusk on the second night. I was a little disappointed in this spot. It was an official campsite, set within a clearing of large, densely packed shrubs and mallee trees. A couple of picnic tables were dotted strategically around the site, along with designated areas for campfires, and an intrusion of rule laden signs. It was plainly obvious that people had been here, and quite frankly, the convenience of facility, however rudimentary, was a blot upon the landscape.

While others busied themselves with the tasks of put up tents, laying out creature comforts and preparing creative meals from the array of supplies they had lugged around on their backs all day, my friend Karen and I hastily erected our tent and ran off to explore; food could wait, but the sun, already beginning to set, would not.
There was a steep dune behind our campsite, beyond the trees, tormenting us to climb its soft peak. A couple of guys joined us, and we scrambled to the top of that looming sand hill, where we were delighted to find a range of dunes set out before us. One of the guys ran back to camp to retrieve some garbage bags, after which we spent a good hour, sliding, jumping, rolling and cart-wheeling down the dunes and racing back up again, before the light faded significantly enough for us to even consider returning to our group. At one point, Karen and I stood atop one dune, while the boys stood atop its neighbour. The sun was at such an angle, with our arms outstretched, we four appeared as a string of paper dolls behind a calico screen, and yet not a single one of us were physically touching.

Exhausted, we headed back to camp and prepared ourselves the most convenient meal we could muster, since all others were just finishing up washing their dishes, and our teacher, who had been burdened with carrying his guitar the entire hike, would soon be calling us in for a sing along beside the fire.

Midway through our fireside warblings, a swell of tormenting clouds moved in once more. This time they moved with such alacrity that we became startled by a sudden, unprecedented clap of earth rattling thunder and simultaneous flash of lightening; pitched so close that the darkened landscape momentarily turned an ashen shade of blinding daylight, which prompted the waters of the now heavily pregnant sky, to break and empty its entire contents upon our little campsite.

Shrieking and giggling, we all scrambled to the nearest tent, wondering if the whipping winds might bring down our flimsy shelters, and the accumulation of unrelenting rain might set us all adrift, and we might find ourselves floating upon these makeshift canvas rafts, somewhere in the middle of the ocean, come morning; but we need not have worried. As abruptly as the storm began, it stopped – dead, almost as if someone had hit a switch. Dazed and confused, we all ventured outside our tents, muttering about the ferocity of the five minute storm, and the strange calm that had now gripped and hypnotised the stunned land. As the dark menace of clouds rolled southward, like a large swarm of threatening beasts, the perfect moon reappeared, and we all howled like wolves, to mark the irregularity of what had just taken place.

Most shook their heads, stunned, cold and wet from their dousing of storm water, and since we were unable to warm ourselves by the snuffed out fire, chose to go to bed, and huddle inside their swags, but the full moon reflecting upon a rain drenched picnic table, beckoned Karen and I to approach.

The pale concrete appeared luminous in the moon light. The pooled waters atop, gave it an ethereal, mirror-like veneer, almost like a porthole to another time. Perhaps it was, for Karen and I felt compelled to explore the scrub lands, with the moon our only guide. Things looked different in the night, a world consisting entirely of silhouettes and shadows. The shrubs that had appeared so tranquil, swaying gently in the daytime breeze, stood dark and motionless now, like looming creatures.

At one point we stumbled upon a parade of trees knitted together like a dark tunnel… oh how it beckoned us to enter it and walk through its guard of honour. So together, we eagerly entered the cavernous mouth of that tree line passage. The trees and branches enveloped us - swallowed us, and our witness, The Moon, became obscured by a tangle of thick, wild foliage. Then something suddenly felt very wrong, like a trick…like a terrible threat.

Karen and I simultaneously stopped dead in our tracks, not one step further did we dare to go. The tiny hairs on my arms stood erect and a shiver of alarm ran the entirety of my spine. Shakily I whispered, “I don’t want to be here anymore”…and with that both Karen and I ran back out of that “mouth”, the same was we came in, like they were the jaws of death, ready to snap shut, trapping and ingesting us forever.

We ran and we ran and we ran, and when we were spent, we stopped, heaving breathlessly and confused. Petrified, I demanded to know “what the hell was that?” Karen was crying. She was freaked out, but she had no answers. She did not know what it was…neither of us knew. Once we calmed down, we tried to reason what we had felt, because neither of us had seen a thing, no reasonable explanation could be found for our dramatic overreaction, and so we ventured back to our tent, promising to investigate in the morning.

In the morning, we found the spot of our distress, it was in fact a tunnel of trees, quite a natural little shelter, in fact, but the threat had passed. Karen and I walked the entire space and no sinister feelings sprang forth- it was a mystery, but the experience burned into me, like a stockman’s branding mark.

Later that day, we hiked to Hells Gate at Parnka Point. The timing of our arrival here was imperative, for we were required to walk across the narrow lagoon to the mainland, which was only possible at low tide. Once on the other side, the porthole into that sand drift land - with is curious weather; tranquil timeless beauty; its mystery and its ghosts, closed the door of privilege and secrets, behind us forever. We could still see the land we had just step away from, smell the sea air and feel natures elements upon our skin and whipping through our hair, but that something else; that something that had moved along with us throughout the camp, the unidentifiable …well, it bid us farewell, not sorry for our departure, and it remained there- where it belonged.

Submitted to Scribbit's May Write Away Contest.

Love is....

Love is baking 75 little heart shaped ginger cookies for your child's pre-school Valentines Party and staying up until 11pm icing them, by hand.

He won't be attending due to his eyes, but I promised....


Happy Valentines everybody.

Oh, and check out Rarely At Home Mom's entry for Scribbit's Write Away contest. Her piece was the winner, and it sure is a goodun. You can read all the other entries here.