No surf in the Kimberly. No surf for me.
That sea is like a lake. I know it’s pumping down south. I know its pumping out East.
I got my little shoredump. It comes through sometimes.
Gives me a little fix.
Mud and bubbles.
When I go for a swim during my breaks I see guests, couples mostly, having a great time slathering each other with mud from the creek up the beach. Popping Champagne. It’s a health spa thing. If there are any benefits is debatable but they always seems to be having a lot of fun doing it.
An esky of mud is kept in the staff cool room. For the guests.
A few days before the season kicked off the staff indulged.
This land moves. When I’m not in the kitchen and I have a few hours, when the tide isn’t to high, when I can be arsed getting out of my hammock, I go for a walk.
To the caves.
It’s always changing. The pillars of soft sandstone come apart in your hands when you touch them.
Sea Hawks circle above. Hundreds of crabs scamper away as you approach.
Cyclones and king tides, taking the red dirt into the sea.
First day st the joint and they were headed to the creek to go fishing. I tagged along.
Jacks Creek is about ten k’s up the beach and is full of box jellyfish and barramundi during the wet.
Wet season was well over, most of the box jellyfish were gone and they hoped a few Barra had stuck around.
The sun dipped over the Indian Ocean and I thought how I hadn’t seen that since I was thirteen years old.
And when the stars came out I couldn’t recall ever seeing them so bright and plentiful.
Ten hours of driving from Kununarra to Fitzroy crossing. Heat.
Burnt out wrecks on the side of the highways. I’d passed a dozen of them on my way up. They’re fresh.
When they’ve still got their tires and parts.
When they haven’t been set alight.
Where spares don’t come cheap or easy.
When I got to Fitzroy River a thousand thousand grasshoppers took to the air and greeted me by plastering my windscreen with their being. And the dozens of cows running across the road. Cantering into my path in what appeared to be some kind of suicidal death pact agreed upon by the heard.
It was time to camp.
Unpowered site please.
There’s a few grasshoppers out there mate.
No shit buddy.