Inlet idyll

I intended on letting my fiftieth birthday slide quietly by and let people know that whenever they asked me where the party was. As it turned out, it kinda became my own little New Year's reckoning or ... not resolution-making ... a way of framing my future and how I want to go about things from now on. That Thursday was a tower day and so I stared out the window and fed flies to the lizard. I've since found out that his name is Napoleon. There were no fires but it was dry and windy, so I was paying attention. My sister called, saying she wanted to come down. I had the weekend off. So, my impromptu birthday party happened over a few weekend days, around a fire, or wandering with sisters, friends and Mum and Dad along the beach to visit the fish traps.

The Aboriginal stone fish traps are between four and seven thousand years old, from the days when the inlet was open to the sea all year. They were built from two courses of some kind of conglomerate stone. All sorts of things live in these stones; lichens' algae, sea weed, invertebrates and shellfish. Each stone is like a community. I heard said that the uncanniness of the inlet is due to this community missing its people.

The inlet is no longer tidal, although there may be a small tide because the moon could easily influence such a large body of water. Now, the sand bar opens yearly for about a month. Once it closes, the inlet begins to fill with water again from the huge catchment systems, all threading through national parks. Most of the time the fish traps are hidden beneath the water and are very hard to find. When the water is evaporated enough, after months of hot, windy weather, they are revealed. I love taking people to visit them again.

Above is Harry the Black Prince, part of a fish trap and swan swan holes, where the swans dig for cockles with their beaks.