Liminal deity

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Reeling. A couple of hours sleep. Stinking of smoke. Shattered, strungout and a little stoned. I pulled out of the 5 mile driveway and began the shortest leg of the longest drive.

I was going back East. The first days drive was the hardest. I nodded off behind the wheel a couple of times. I made it to a long white empty beach, saw a small shore-break. I thanked Hermes that I’d made it without flipping the Magna and called it a day. 

Waves don’t get much prettier than when they break over white sand.

It sucked to leave my home of six months. All the mates I’d made and good times had were left in the red dirt my bald wheels kicked up behind me.

It was a melancholy time.



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A king tide sunset in the Kimberly.

In the town of Broome a few hours to the north a few hundred grey nomads crowd the balcony of the Mangrove Hotel to view a natural phenomena.

A giant new Moon pokes out from behind a wall of cloud. Its reflection begins to stretch over the mangroves as it lifts into the sky. A narrow beam of light playing with the tidal ridges in the sand of the mangroves below.

The digeridoo drones and the bimli go clack clack clack.

It looks like a set of golden steps descending from the heavens.


Down the hill in the shadow of the Hotel. Theres a pile of shells, large as a dune. A shell midden. I like to imagine what it was like on that spot thousands of years ago.

To know what it meant when they saw that moonbeam bounce across the mud.



Old Gold







I walked up the beach, around the headlands and hoped there was enough swell for a bodysurf. There wasn’t. The wind was up and the sun was dipping fast. It was as cold as I’d been since I left Tasmania.

Small swells rocked and flared in the wind with the sun behind it and I tried to relax and enjoy the time I had.

The whole coast had transformed. Sea Hawks circled above eerily as I made my way through the rock formations along the shore. So much of the sand was gone.

I dove into the shore-break and shot some photos. The wind chilled and the sun went away. Baitfish skipped along wherever I swam and my heart got up a bit.

It wasn’t bad.


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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.