Once, an old lady told me that her people used to take their teenage girls to Waychinicup for healing, to "fix them up when they sick or just sad."
The place has a kind of fey wildness that never fails to infect visitors with a timeless peace and the creeping sense that strange, shy creatures are watching from the breathing scrub and water.
A river winds through a deep, moist valley, darkening with the tannins of tea tree until it reaches the stone-locked inlet. Opposite, the sea squeezes in through megalithic gatekeepers and these two surges colliding create a gentle, breathing tide. Breathe in, breathe out.
Waychinicup is a place to go when feeling jammed between the cogs of The Machine. It's relentless power is irrelevant here, The Machine means nothing at all.
We returned to Waychinicup last night and I brought the girl, Pearlie, set up the tent for her, watched her burrow into a swag and sleep. She slept the solid sleep of the exhausted innocent for fourteen hours.
Waychinicup - Place of Emu Dreaming. Jill Kempson, 2006