LAND SEA YOU ME

Eucla. Nullarbor. White Well.
Yalata. Nundroo. Coorabie.
Fowlers Bay. Penong.
Ceduna. Smoky Bay.
Haslam. Streaky Bay.
Yanerbie. Sceale Bay.
Baird Bay. Murphy’s Haystacks.
Port Kenny. Venus Bay.
Walker’s Rocks. Elliston.
Pearson Island. Lock’s Well.
Sheringa. Point Drummond.
Coffin Bay. Port Lincoln.
Memory Cove. Tumby Bay.
Lipson Cove. Arno Bay.
Cowell. Whyalla.
Port Bonython. Port Augusta.
Mambray Creek. Port Germein.
Clements Gap. Port Broughton.
Alford. Wallaroo. Moonta.
Chinaman Wells. Port Victoria.
Port Rickaby. Point Turton.
Corny Point. Inneston …

L
I
M
I
T
E
D
~ Che Chorley ~
LAND SEA YOU ME is a limited edition publication.
Produced to the highest standard and approved,
signed and numbered by the artist and publisher,
CHE CHORLEY. To ensure the integrity of the edition,
the artist and publisher hereby affirm the authenticity
of the limited edition publication with this certificate.
E
D
ITI
O
N
August 2017

Land Sea You Me
Would like to extend a sincere acknowledgement of, and thanks to the
traditional Aboriginal owners of our lands. On our journey, we travelled
through the lands of the Mirning, Nawu, Wirangu, Nukunu, Banggarla,
Narangga, Buandig, Peramangk, Kaurna and Ngarrindjeri nations.
It is on your lands that LAND SEA YOU ME was born.
Evolved. Lives. We see you, and we thank you.

D
E
D
I
C
ATE
D
T
O
M
YFAN
W
Y
J
U
N
IPER
Myfanwy and Juniper, my motivation
and inspiration. Without you, I’d still
be stranded somewhere on the Nullarbor.

Me
Land

Sea
You

Foreword
~ Mark Kimber ~
STUDIO HEAD OF PHOTOGRAPHY AND NEW MEDIA
SCHOOL OF ART, ARCHITECTURE AND DESIGN
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTH AUSTRALIA
Me

Land
Sea
Sunrise with Sea Monsters, 1845 is the title of one of the most
famous paintings of JMW Turner.
A swirling mass of yellow-imbued colours bombard the senses;
a tumultuous sky crashes into a turbulent sea as a huge set of
eyes (or fish or a paddle boat depending on who you listen to) take
form amidst the shoreline. Turner had a great love affair with the
ocean throughout his stellar career and created some of the finest
and most visually challenging images ever made of the sea. When
we stand in front of his huge paintings we are transported back
in time to a lost age of sail clashing with a new age of steam.
Photography allows us to visit far-off places, to see what has only
been seen by a few. Some of the earliest and most spectacular photographs
of the sea were made by Gustave Le Gray in 1856, stunningly
mesmerising images of a brilliantly reflective dark sea and stark
hard-edged clouds hanging overhead. Le Gray was able to produce
these images by combining two negatives, one for the sky, one for
the sea, as the photographic process of the time could not accurately
record the two together. He made the most magnificent images
of the sea dotted in places with square-rigged, three masted sailing
ships. His works are a testament to the vastness of the ocean.
Photography’s love of the sea led to a marvellous relationship
with surfing. It stretches back well over a hundred years. The first
known photograph of a surfer was taken in 1890 and shows a proud
Hawaiian man standing in the shallows of Waikiki, his board held
behind his back with the imposing presence of Diamond Head in
the background. What makes the photograph even more interesting
is the fact that he is wearing very little and holding a surfboard.
Both undress and surfing were forbidden by the missionaries of
the time. Fortunately for us they weren’t successful at stamping
out the surfing part. Since that time so many have been drawn to
photograph the ocean, attracted by the majesty of a seascape that
changes almost by the second, the movement of the wind on the
water and the tides shaping the water into ever-changing moods.
The sea is such a rich canvas for those who pay attention,
especially those who approach it through the medium of surfing.
One such devotee, Tom Blake, is credited as being the father
of surf photography. He revolutionised board construction, was
the first man to put a fin on a surfboard and even invented the
sailboard. His other contribution in 1930 was the development
of the water housing for a camera, giving him, and a multitude
of photographers who followed, the ability to present the sea
from a surfer’s point of view.
You

Land
One of the keys to making a memorable art work is to show us
something that we’ve never seen before or something that we
think we know, but in a new and challengingly different way.
It is the second that Che Chorley presents to us in his images.
It is possible to believe that we have seen all there is to see
in photographs of the ocean, but Che proves to us so eloquently
there is much, much more to know.
Che Chorley is a photographer’s photographer, blessed with
a truly original eye, an uncanny understanding of the nuances
of colour, light and shadow and an unwavering desire to get
the very best photograph he can. In a world where everyone
is a photographer, he is a true artist. What makes someone
a good photographer is the ability to see visual relationships
of space, form and above all, light. It’s a talent that Che
possesses in almost infinite abundance. His ability to look
for those quintessential meeting points of light and form
makes for some of the most exquisite and enchanting
photographs I have ever seen.
Che is an alchemist, transmuting the base elements of light
and wind and water into something that transcends everyday
experience. I remember the first photograph of his that I saw.
It appeared to be taken in the middle of an empty desert of
soft powdery sand, sand punctured by huge metallic-coloured
raindrops.
It was powerful and elemental and strange, but on closer observation,
I realised it had in fact been taken in the sea just a few
metres from the shore. Che had taken his camera into a bumpy
shore break, extremely close to the small, glassy swells just as
the rain was beginning to fall, in that perfect but elusively brief
moment before the windless waves are smudged by a change in
the weather. Without something to reference the scale, it was
very difficult to tell the size of what I was looking at. Here was
an artist whose vision was capable of creating something truly
unique, showing me something that I thought I knew, but in a
new and enchanting way. Che is the photographer whose work
never fails to reveal to us powerful and beguiling images of the
world in unexpected ways. He takes us on a mesmerising journey,
one that is underpinned by a number of potent basic elements.

Sea
Firstly, there is the absolute necessity of ‘being there,’ whether
that be in the Moana shore break or a distant, secret beach, found
after pedalling his bike hundreds of kilometres along country
roads and through sand hills. He reveals something very few of
us will ever see. To capture his particular majestic vision of the
power of the sea requires a great deal of research, and sometimes
hard physical exertion just to get to these wondrous places.
Then he needs to wait until the wind and tide and light converge
in a singular way. Do not think that these places always look the
way they do in Che’s imagery and it’s just a matter of rolling
up and banging off a few shots. Most of the time these locations
don’t look at all as they do in his pictures; he needs to wait
hours, days, sometimes weeks, for all the elements to converge.
Next, it takes the ability to see visual possibilities in these
places: which light works best to carry the power that is needed –
morning, midday, late afternoon; which angle – near, close, far.
All this takes tremendous skill to distil the striking energy out
of these constantly changing environments. Then, once he has
an understanding of all those variables, there comes the matter
of manipulating his camera to record what he sees – again not an
easy task. This is no point and shoot situation. It is only through
the delicate balance of the trinity of focus, aperture and shutter
speed, born of years of practice, that these wonderful images
come alive.
There is a story, apocryphal most likely, about JMW Turner
having himself lashed to the mast of a ship as it sailed through
a storm in order that he might witness all the colour, power
and majesty of the wild and tumultuous sea. While the story
itself might be more legend than fact, it does exemplify the
unwavering dedication and passion Turner brought to his work.
Che is an artist equally passionate and committed to his work,
journeying to distant and often harsh environments and waiting
for that magical moment when sea, swells, wind and, above all,
light, collide in wondrous harmony.
You
There are times when surfers and those who love the sea are
witness to awe-inspiring visions when nature stages the most
transcendent display of ephemeral wonder. Most of us sadly
won’t be there to marvel at such performances. But thanks
to the discerning eye and dedicated talent of Che Chorley,
we too can experience the magic of the sea through his
superbly enchanting photographs.
Me

Land
K
IL
O
M
ETR
E
S
C
O
VERED
Me

Sea
S
EVEN
P
UNCTURE
S
You

Me
T
W
O
N
IGHTS
I
N
A
B
U
S

Land
Sea
T
W
O
P
AIRS
O
F
T
HONGS
You

Land
F
O
UR
C
A
M
ERA
L
ENSES
Me

F
Sea You
O
UR
S
HARKS

Land
Me
K
IL
O
G
RA
M
S
L
OST

E
I
G
Sea
H
T
B
UTANE
C
ANI
S
TER
S
You

Land
T
W
O
N
IGHTS
O
N
A
C
O
UCH
Me

T
H
REE
N
I
G
H
T
S
I
N
A
H
O
STEL
Sea You

Land
T
W
O
P
LANE
F
LIGHTS
Me

O
NE
B
IKE
Sea
You

H
T
S
B
E
D
Me
S
IX
N
I
G
I
N
A

Land
O
NE
P
AIR
O
F
S
NEAKER
S
Sea
You

Land
Sea
Me

You
O
NE
N
IGHT
I
N
A
B
P
M
O
TEL
P
H
O
T
O
G
RAP
H
S
M
ADE

T
W
O
H
ELICOPTER
F
L
I
GHTS
Me

N
I
G
H
T
S
Land
Sea
1
1
0
I
N
A
T
E
N
T
You

Land
O
VER
2
00
S
NAKES
Me

Sea
T
W
O
N
IGHTS
I
N
A
V
A
N
You

08 July 2016

NULLARBOR
Melting lines under a winter sun.

POINT SINCLAIR
Chaotic patterning of a breaking wave.

Light
and
shadow
play
under a
brooding
sky.
FOWLERS BAY

Honey
coloured
zephyrs
at the
macro
level.
FOUL BAY

POINT BROWN
Life and
death on
the road

Ruler edge horizons under an energetic sky.

MYPONGA

Sea stacks and layer cakes.

CAPE DOUGLAS

MURPHY’S HAYSTACKS

Granite
monoliths
and the
forces
that shape
them.

COORONG
Chased by a sultry summer storm.

CEDUNA
Dynamic and relentless wave action
continue to shape the coast.

EYRE PENINSULA
West Coast identity and surfer.
~ Josiah Schmucker ~

Morning light and a heavy sky meet.

POINT BROWN

NUYTS ARCHIPELAGO

Sixty kilometres off the coast and any day of the week.

Tuna wrangler. Photographer. Mate.

~ Joel Bates ~
PORT LINCOLN

SEARCY BAY

A midday sun lights the movements of water over reef.

INNES NATIONAL PARK

The best riding roads in the world.

EDITHBURGH
The blue hues of the Edithburgh Ocean Pool.

The bare bones of the barque.
ETHEL WRECK BEACH

BLANCHE POINT

Scanning the ocean
that so drastically
changed his life.
~ Chris Blowes ~

Striated seascapes in the shallows of Spencer Gulf.
WHYALLA
Parched patchwork, tailings on the road.

BACKSTAIRS PASSAGE

Colour and light play in the salt spray.

SEARCY BAY
Saturated landscapes.

A heavy sky and a setting sun.
NULLARBOR

FAR
WEST
COAST
~ Dane Reynolds ~
Comfortable
in the
unforgiving
landscape.

FAR
WEST
COAST
~ Craig Anderson ~
Post surf.

SCOTT BAY
Natural cerulean gradients of the pristine waters.

FAR WEST COAST

Dune fields on the move.

FAR WEST COAST
~ Heath Joske ~

Standing tall in an aquamarine arch.

~ Boordo ~
At home,

post surf.
BRAMFIELD

CAPE SPENCER
Golden tin-foil seas march from the horizon.

LONG GULLY
A bellicose sea under a stormy sky.

POINT BROWN
Clashing currents and lines of swell.

COORABIE
Incidental
sculptures
in the desert

MYPONGA

The Fifty Year Storm.

EYRE
PENINSULA
Reef and swell
meet framed
through caves
carved in the
limestone.
ROBE
The Obelisk
framed by
the eroding
coastline.

POINT DRUMMOND
~ Brendan Hinton ~
Waiting for
the weather.

FAR WEST COAST
Pete Tomlinson
wrapped in
a turquoise
dreamscape.

~ Janine Mackintosh ~
KANGAROO ISLAND

Holding a sheep skull, dripping in yakka gum.

Sou-west bluster.
INNES NATIONAL PARK

FAR WEST COAST

An empty
wave breaks
while a few
of the world’s
best watch on.

A scar across the landscape.
NULLARBOR

OFFSHORE
Golden morning
light over the
St Francis Isles,
some of the first
landforms named
by Europeans in
South Australia.
CEDUNA

PORT LINCOLN
~ Amanda Bichard ~ The sole woman working on deck in the abalone industry.

PORT LINCOLN
~ Darryl Carrison ~ Abolone diver.

NEPTUNE ISLAND
MARINE PARK

A small shark passes my cage in the pristine waters.

Submerged
reefs
warble
under
the
weight
of a
draining
ocean.
SOUTHERN YORKE PENINSULA

FOWLERS BAY

Painted landscapes of the salt lakes.

STREAKY BAY
Fingers of granite outcrops.

A pod of dolphins hugs the reefs of the coast.
STREAKY BAY

The tricolor of the dunes.
FAR WEST COAST

~ Henry Jock Walker ~
A salute to the sun.

CACTUS BEACH

SECOND VALLEY
The glow of summer light and sea spray.

Salt
dunes,
crisp
in the
summer
sun.
PRICE

ELLISTON ~ Richo ~ In his element.

Craig Anderson and a turn from above.
EYRE PENINSULA

EYRE PENINSULA
Shyama Buttonshaw glides across a canvas of contrast.

RAPID BAY Scope and scale of the hills of the Fleurieu Peninsula.

D’ESTREES BAY
Minute movements of the ocean surface under a black sky.

MYPONGA
Minute variations in light and surface, never to be repeated.

SHERINGA

Evening light rakes across sea stacks.

Whitewater plumage catches the last rays of the sun.

CAPE SPENCER

~ Jeremy Ievins ~
PORT MACDONNELL
Fisho. Artist. Surfer. Father.

~ Jason Swales ~
MARION BAY
An artist in his studio.

FAR WEST COAST
Complementary colours of the land and seascape.

CARRACKALINGA
Moments of silence amongst a chaotic sea.

FAR WEST COAST
Rock cairns grow with each visitor to the headland.

Land
time.

before
PEARSON ISLAND

PORT ADELAIDE
A brutalist cityscape, softened by light and colour.

WHYALLA
The town painted red.

FOWLERS BAY

Weathered wood and lines in the sand.

COFFIN BAY
~ Jonnie Western ~
Contemplates the worst storm he’s encountered at sea.

CACTUS BEACH
The million star hotel.

Light pools with cloud cover.
LADY BAY

POINT PEARCE
Remnants
of tides
past

PORT MACDONNELL
A Gothic spire takes
on the Southern Ocean.

LONG GULLY
The silence of an
approaching storm.

FOWLERS BAY
Moonscapes and subtle colour and light.

EYRE PENINSULA
Undulations of the sea surface.

~ Ngahuia Trewartha ~
Blessing the land and sea
for my journey as I pass.
PORT LINCOLN
The fifty year storm marches on.
BLANCHE POINT

MOUNT GREENLY SUMMIT
An extraordinary vista after a wet climb.
Photograph by Brendan Hinton.

Land
P
R
O
L
O
G
UE
Stony Rise
37°11’13.3”S
139°45’17.3”E
Me

Sea
I’m in my tent.
I’ve been here for the past hundred and ten-odd nights, give or
take a few in mates’ vans, motel beds, hostels or bus. It’s not
raining yet but I’ve kept an eye on the radar and I’m expecting
it to come down and come down hard. The wind is predicted
to hit around 3AM, but for now it’s still. I’m alone; I haven’t
seen anyone else camped in the entire National Park for the two
nights I’ve been here. A few 4WDs have passed the tent over that
time, but only to check the surf further down the rutted road.
It’s pitch dark, no moon, I’m only a few kilometres out of town,
but I still feel isolated. My only way in and out of where I am
is by bike. There’s a storm on the horizon and I’ve got a feeling
this is going to be a belter.
You
Only five months earlier this would have been a dream to shoot.
Warm night, no rain, stunning landscape only a few minutes ride
down the track, not a soul around and a very active lightning
storm marching towards my camp. Tonight however, I’m staying
put in the warm embrace of the tent, trying to occupy my mind
with episodes of No Such Thing as a Fish (my go-to podcast when
everything is going wrong). I’ve eaten dinner, called to wish
the girls goodnight and slid into my sleeping bag.
The tent lights up; no thunder yet as the storm front is still
a way off. It lights up again, an irregular strobe light. My
surroundings are bathed in orange every time a bolt tears
through the night sky, the white light filtered through the
amber of my tent’s fly. The thunder now begins, a distant
rumble. I check the radar on my phone once again and emerge
to take in the night air. The strobe now begins in earnest; the
horizon is lighting up all around me — it’s a monster storm
and moving very slowly. The thunder is guttural and no longer
distant. Strikes are immediately followed by rolling cracks,
echoing around the landscape. The birds are awake now too.
There is an uneasiness in my body that I’m unable to shake
and the sporadic firing up of the land isn’t helping. My breath
is fast, my body is exhausted, my nerves are a little frayed.
I’m craving fresh food and I’m missing my girls desperately.
I’ve been on the road almost five months now and I’ve endured
the worst winter weather in living memory. I’m no longer
looking forward to storms, but rather a good night’s sleep
and a tail wind to the finish line. I climb back into the tent
and once again zip myself in. The air is thick; the storm
is finally here. I curl up on my camping mat — I’m in for
a long night.

Land
I passed a Uniting Church weeks earlier at Maitland on the Yorke
Peninsula, its sign out the front reading WHOEVER IS PRAYING FOR
RAIN PLEASE STOP! It hadn’t worked. The rain began to come down,
the ground quickly soaked, smells of damp earth permeated
the tent. The front began to show its teeth, lightning, thunder,
rain. I was now reassured that I had made the right decision to
sit this storm out, as hard as that decision had been. The front
kicked, and kicked again but still no wind. It had more to give
yet, hours more it turned out, slowly creeping its way along the
coast. The shadows on my tent which just hours earlier had been
comforting outlines of the Australian bush became more and more
ominous with every lightning strike, gnarled hands waving at me,
grating nails sliding down the side of my tent. The wind arrived
as predicted on the stroke of 3AM, announcing its arrival with
a scream, just as the lightning and thunder began to abate.
There would be no sleep tonight. The walls of my tent began to
warp, the ground beneath me was now soaked and the sound of
the ocean became increasingly menacing and seemingly closer.
The finish line was only 197 kilometres away.
I recorded the sounds from that night on my audio recorder.
Listening back now you can hear on one grab something in my
voice akin to burnout, accompanied by the constant drum of the
rain. For a second sound byte, perhaps an hour later, I switched
the recorder back on, this time to capture the wind which had
blown a crescendo, the recording shuts down with my voice
saying ‘over it.’ I’d nearly reached the end of my journey and
apparently the end of endurance. The closer I got to the finish
line, the harder it became. My partner Myf was twelve weeks
pregnant and alone with our two-year-old daughter. I was so
close to home and my girls.
I sit here three weeks later in front of my computer writing
this, the music of Sufjan Stevens keeping me company. It’s
New Year’s Day and I’m on a hobby farm a few clicks out of Yass
in southern New South Wales. I’m surrounded by family, alpacas,
dogs, chooks and kangaroos. I sleep in a bed, safe, next to my
girls now. I’m enjoying storms again and have only jumped on
the bike once or twice in the past ten days since crossing the
arbitrary line in the sand that marked the Victorian border.
I’m here to put words down on paper, words to accompany my
photographs, words to contextualise the landscapes, words to
enrich the seascapes, words to tell the story of a bloke, a bike
and what five thousand kilometres of South Australia look like.

Sea
Hopefully you’re on the couch, or better yet, on a porch somewhere
overlooking the ocean. You’ve got a few minutes spare,
cup of coffee with you, perhaps a glass of wine and the muso
Elliot Smith providing you with a soundtrack. You’ve had a
flick through the photographs but you’re still a little unsure
what you’re looking at. Is this a photo essay? Not really.
A surf magazine? Nope. A visual history of South Australia?
Yes and no. An adventure novel? Kinda, but not really.
You Me

Ceduna
CHAPTER ONE
Yatala
C
H
APTER
T
H
REE
Sheringa
C
HAPTER
T
Eucla
EN
CHAPTER TWO
C
H
APTER
Cactus Beach
F
IVE
C
H
APTER
Fowlers
Bay
Big Swamp
C
F
H CHAPTER ELEVEN
O APTER
UR
Carrow
T
Ceduna
Wells
W
ELVE
C
HAPTER
C
HA
P
TER
E
IGHT
S
EVEN
CHAPTER SIX
Nuyts Reef
Elliston
Far
West
Coast
CHAPTER NINE

C
C
H
APTER
E
I
G
H
TEEN
H
Clements IRTEEN Gap
North
Neptune
Island
Edithburgh
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
H
APTER
T
C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN
Inneston
Moana
C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN
C
Salt Creek
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Kingston SE
H
APTER
T
W
ENTY
T
W
O
C
H
AP
T
ER
F
IFT
E
EN
Fishery Bay
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Marion
Bay
C
H
AP
T
ER
T
W
ENTY
Hindmarsh
Island
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Long Gully

C
H
APTER
O
NE
Me
The evening sun filtered through the lonely
tree in the motel carpark. Juno played at our
32°07’10.
feet. We decided to get back on the road the
following day, aiming to make Fowlers Bay,
only an hour or two west. Juno ran along
behind us as we made our way back to our
room to sort out dinner for the evening.
I heard Juno stumble and turned to see her
trip and fall — not a hard fall, the kind a
toddler makes ten times a day. She looked
Ceduna.
up and began to cry, so Myf picked her up
in her arms; I thought little of it and kept
The sliding door to the Emergency Department walking. Hurried cries of ‘Che, Che, she’s not
is locked. It’s afterhours, and the sun has breathing’ made me spin around. Her body
just set on a freezing evening in Ceduna. had tensed, her back arched, her arms shot
It’s early July and I have my daughter in my out in front of her and her eyes rolled back
arms as I push the button over and over on in her head. She went limp. My daughter was
the intercom to summon the nurse. Juniper now unconscious and blue in Myf’s arms. We
has been sick with a cold for a week now, both call her name, ‘Juno … Juno … JUNIPER’,
but that’s not why we’re here.
willing her to wake. Finally she did. I found
my phone and dialed 000, running to the motel
reception, lunging through the door: ‘What’s
your address?’ Kitsch Americana is plastered
across the walls of the motor inn reception,
the manager dressed like an ageing Elvis
impersonator. He handed me a business card
with the address and I burst back out into
the evening air and back to Myf and Juno,
the ambulance officer giving me instructions
on the phone. She was now conscious and
responsive but definitely not herself. How
long was she out for? Did she hit her head?
We piled into our car to make the two minute
drive to the hospital, trying to calm ourselves
and Juno as we travelled.
My partner Myf, and our daughter Juniper
and I have been making our way west to Eucla,
the starting point for LAND SEA YOU ME. We
had packed the car and trailer with a couple
of months’ worth of supplies and were on our
way to the beginnings of an adventure. We’d
stopped for a couple of days in Ceduna to help
Juno recover from a cold before we hit the
Nullarbor in earnest. The three of us had holed
up in a motor inn at the gates of Ceduna, just
across the road from the Mogas, the servo with
the best coffee in town according to anyone
you asked. The mid-winter weather matched
our mood. We’d been stuck inside with a sick
toddler for a couple of days and naturally Myf
and I had also picked up the bug. It became
movies streamed over dodgy motel wifi and
take-away meals while we fought against our
bodies under blankets and buzzing bar-heaters.
My bike and equipment were in the trailer
out the front of the motel, not having yet
been unwrapped for the adventure. We were
two days’ drive away from Eucla, but we just
couldn’t seem to get past Ceduna. We woke
each morning to a feverish child, showing no
signs of her usual vivacity and decided to stay
a day longer. That evening the sun had come
out briefly and we released Juno out of the
motel room and into the fresh air. The three
of us sat in the fading winter sun, Juno decked
out in trackies, hoodie and uggs. She was then
twenty months old. Myf and I discussed our
plan from there. The three of us were to make
the journey across South Australia together,
Juno and Myf going on ahead while I ride,
catching up when the landscape allowed — two
separate adventures along a common route.
Land
The nurse arrives immediately at the hospital
door and takes Juno in; he’s measured and
professional. Juno’s face is white, her
movements laboured. We go through the
incident with
133°
the nurse, trying our best to
convey what happened, but we’re confused
ourselves. It was a normal fall, she didn’t
hit her head. He goes about the usual tests:
her pupils dilate when they’re meant to,
her heart beats as it should, her blood is
oxygenated. He reckons she has had a hit of
adrenaline with the fall and gone into shock,
a stress-triggered pseudo-seizure. She is
fine and she will be fine. ‘Keep an eye on her,’
is the recommendation; ‘let her sleep … and
feel free to continue your journey.’
Myf lies alongside Juno in one of the two
single beds in the motel room; I’m on the
other. Neither of us sleeps well, but Juno
does. I lie awake wondering if we should
push on west, or perhaps we should take
a couple more days to recuperate?

Juno wakes us in the morning, apparently
ignorant of the previous night’s episode. She
8”S
seems herself once more and the sun is finally
shining. We treat ourselves to a breakfast
at the Ceduna Foreshore Hotel: toast, juice,
cereal and coffee. It helps to change our mood.
There’s a sign on the main street of Ceduna
telling you how many whales are currently
swimming in the protected bays further west
— Fowlers Bay reads six. We make the decision
to push on, reassured by the diagnosis and
the promise of whales in the bay.
The drive is just over an hour, and we arrive
in the afternoon. The dune fields light up
with the low winter sun. We set up the rooftop
camper in the caravan park and Juno and
I make our way into the dunes. I take a couple
of selfies with Juno in my arms to send to
my family. Everyone back home was worried
about her health. Looking back on the photographs
now, we’re both pale and our smiles
look forced. Back at camp, the nightly fire
pit comes to life, and we descend the dunes
to cook dinner. The camp kitchen is a
pleasant environment. People from all walks
of life come and go, damper is thrown into
the fire as many settle in for the evening,
plastic wine glasses in hand. Juno and Myf
head off to the bathroom to brush their
teeth as I clean the dinner dishes. We’ll be
in Eucla tomorrow and I’ll finally be able to
get on the bike.
After another sleepless night now back in
the all-too-familiar motel room, we head
back to Fowlers Bay the next day to pick up
the trailer and break down the rest of our
camp. There is a note stuck to the trailer
with gaffer tape from the young girls from
the night before: ‘Dear neighbours, we hope
that Juniper is feeling better and that you
can get back on the road soon. We are praying
for Juniper.’ Juniper has two more episodes
that day. The drive back to Adelaide takes
us into the night, arriving home after
midnight. We’re exhausted but happy to
be home. All three of us sleep in our bed.
We spend the next few days getting back
on our feet and attending appointments.
The doctors give Juno the all-clear; she is fine,
it is suggested that her episodes are a stress
response and that she should grow out of them
in time, but until then, we would just have
to deal with it. Myf and I are both wiped.
We spend time on the phone to our families
around Australia, discussing our next moves
and the logistics from here on out. We debate
if this is the right time for LAND SEA YOU ME.
Should we wait a few months? Try again next
year? We decide that we will continue. Juno
and Myf would join me for the first few
weeks in the saddle, neither of us feeling
comfortable with Myf camping alone on the
Nullarbor, looking after Juno. They would
drive ahead and make camp with me every
single night. When we found a rhythm and
were both comfortable with Juno’s health,
Myf would return to Adelaide and I would
be solo from there on.
I climb into the tent, carrying a couple of
books up the ladder to read to Juniper before
bed. Through the canvas I hear Myf yelling my
name once more. There she is, Juniper limp in
her arms. She is having another episode. I get
the girls into the light of the camp kitchen.
40’21.1”E
Juno has come to after being unconscious for
close to thirty seconds. I approach a family
with young girls having dinner and explain
the situation with tears in my eyes, and ask
them to keep Myf and Juno company while I
race to pack down our tent. I leave the trailer
and everything else behind. Juno is having
a ball with the young girls by the time I’m
done, but we still hit the road to the hospital,
catastrophic thoughts running through our
heads. Once again we wait at the locked
Emergency Department doors for the nurse
to let us in, and this time a doctor is called.
Fuck this, Myf and I want answers but the
doctor is hesitant to make a diagnosis,
recommending we head back to Adelaide
to get her checked out further. He does
suggest, however, that there is a chance
she is having breath-hold episodes.
Sea
You

C
H
APTER
T
W
O
Me
Eucla.
It’s a beautifully calm winter’s evening in
Eucla, there’s a light wind, high cloud and a
sunset rich in warm pastels. We’re spending
the night camped, overlooking a plain below
and although we’ve been on the Nullarbor the
previous two nights, this feels like our first
real night of the adventure. I’ve finally been
able to take my bike out, a Bombtrack Beyond
XL, and put it together, panniers, trailer,
the whole setup. I still don’t believe we’ve
managed to make it this far, let alone credit
that in a few months’ time I’ll be sitting
on the other side of South Australia having
pedalled my way across dune, paddock, beach,
highway and cliff top.
kilometres to the border and then another
fifteen to our campsite. There was going to
be very little avoiding of the highway for the
first few hundred kilometres and I had fears
of trucks and traffic making the ride difficult,
if not dangerous. The twenty kms to the border
along the Eyre Highway was in no way arduous:
no wind, a wide shoulder, little traffic and
flat. I started to think this would be easy.
The trucks that did pass gave me a wide birth,
and I was sheltered from the wind by what
little vegetation there was. Unfortunately this
changed at the border. As soon as I entered
South Australia, my home state and home for
LAND SEA YOU ME, the shoulder disappeared.
My headphones had to come off, no getting
smarter with podcasts while getting fitter.
It was immediately obvious how important
my ears would be on the highways. Without
the shoulder, there would be no room for
error. I would have to hit the dirt every
time a truck passed, or caravan, or car.
To misquote the comedian Jerry Seinfeld,
between road train and a cyclist, ‘the
helmet is wearing you for protection.’
My turn off to our first camp was ten
kilometres inside South Australia. A friend
The last few weeks are weighing heavily on Myf had recommended an App named WikiCamps
and me. I’m starting to feel frustrated at our and that, along with a handful of maps, would
lack of progress. Myf and I are not willing to form the basis for my route and campsites.
admit it
31°40’41.
to ourselves yet, but we feel cursed. The first camp was named Derek’s 10km Peg
All the setbacks have begun to take their toll. Beach Site. You turned off the highway at the
But here we are, a big sky above us, I can see ten kilometre mark and followed the snaking
the Eucla telegraph office from our camp, tracks for a few more clicks through bush,
five kilometres away across the plain, nestled until you think you’ve gone too far, or not
in the dunes. Our arbitrary start line was far enough, or was it that track back there?
chosen solely because I like the romance of And then you come over a ridge to one of the
a long ruined telegraph office being reclaimed most magnificent views in South Australia.
by the sand dunes that, before, had provided The vista appears before you, the beginnings
a protective border. Once a lifeline across the of the Bunda Cliffs to your left and the
country, the relic is now a tourist attraction, Merdayerrah Sand Patch to your right, South
buried and uncovered with the shifting sands, Australia’s western-most beach. In front of
names of tourists from decades past carved you is the ocean, unbroken until Antarctica,
into the soft sandstone.
ruler-straight lines of swell marching towards
128°53’10.
you. There’s no sign of the campsite apart
All the hard work and sacrifice of the past from a few fire pits, a true bush-camp, no
eighteen months had come down to this: Myf sound of the highway, no sign of humanity.
and Juno waving me off with sandwiches in The Bunda Cliffs begin here and would not
hand, the bike lunging forward on the red be broken until Head of Bight, some 210
dirt, The Drones playing in my headphones. kilometres to the east, the vertigo-inducing
I’m flying, hooting and yelling, ‘I am on my cliffs snake their way along the coast, forming
way.’ Finally my bike is doing what it had the longest line of uninterrupted sea-cliffs
been built to do, finally I’m sweating, finally in the world. I was ecstatic, I’d ridden my
I’m taking photographs, finally I’m smelling first day in the saddle and found a campsite
the dirt under the Australian sun, finally and landscape more rugged and remote than
I’m watching sleepy lizards scramble across I’d imagined. I had Myf and Juno with me
the road … finally I’m moving forward. It was to share this moment. We were welcomed
a short day in the saddle, a cheeky twenty-odd to the adventure with a remarkable sunset,

Land
Sea
the cirrus clouds catching the last rays
of the day, the sand dunes on the horizon
painted pink. The underlying feeling of
foreboding had begun to abate.
The first weeks would be spent on the Bunda
Plateau, formed some fifty million years ago
when the southern coast of Australia tore
itself away from Antarctica. I wouldn’t be
able to slide into the ocean until I had made
my way past the fortress that the Bunda
Cliffs present. Up to 130 metres from ocean
to cliff-top, they form a serrated, scalloped
edge of the country, a finite, terminal,
absolute end to land. Walking with trepidation
towards the brink you cannot help but feel
overwhelmed, a respect for the majesty
of the land. It demands you stand up and
applaud. The sounds of the cauldron below
are muted, a light breeze passes your ears
deadening any sound of the ocean. The colours
of the sea surface, however, are electric under
the overhead winter sun. The subdued hues
of the layer-cake cliffs meet a vibrant blue
of the Southern Ocean. It is awe-inspiring,
the edge of land rarely being so perfectly
delineated. Our island ends here.
Walk fifty metres inland and you’re totally
remote, an otherwise seemingly featureless
landscape. A flat plain, horizon line in-theround,
not a plant over knee-high, the only
1”S
pimple on the landscape … my tent. After
dark the silence is thunderous. I had read
about and since forgotten the silence of the
Nullarbor until I experienced it myself. The
pitch dark of a moonless, cloud-filled night
and uneasy quiet is, I imagine, akin to a
sensory-deprivation tank. Step away from
the highway and you could be standing a
9”E
millennia past, the land before time. I felt
truly privileged to be crossing this landscape.
The monotony was beautiful, droll and
occasionally broken by a scratched out track
which allowed me to get off the highway and
into the scrub. There was no fear of getting
lost here, I had the Eyre Highway to my left
and the cliffs to my right, in the middle
was me making my way across the Nullarbor,
helmet off, speed halved and podcast playing.
The tracks wound their way parallel to the
cliffs, occasionally sweeping close enough
to the edge for me to stop and take it all in,
pull out a can of baked beans and heat it up
for lunch. I’d get my radio out and search
for the ABC — nothing yet.
Apart from the tracks beneath my tyres, this
landscape was thankfully devoid of any signs
of humanity. I came across a golf club and
tees perched atop the cliff and a shrine to a
friend long since passed, fishing rod and line
permanently cast, but that was the extent of
the built environment along the Bunda Cliffs.
Not much has changed since the explorer
Edward Eyre crossed the Nullarbor in the
summer of 1840. He writes poetically of his
experience facing the cliffs in his journal.
‘Distressing and fatal as these cliffs might
prove to us, there was a grandeur and
sublimity in their appearance that was
most imposing, and which struck me with
admiration. Stretching out before us in
unbroken line, they presented the singular
and romantic appearance of massy battlements
of masonry, supported by huge
buttresses, and glittering in the morning
sun which had now risen upon them, and
made the scene beautiful even amidst the
dangers and anxieties of our situation.’
It took me five days of bliss in the saddle
until I made it to Nullarbor, the first ‘town’
on the Eyre Highway. Nullarbor is really just
a roadhouse with a campground, airstrip and
small motel. Anyone you gave a friendly nod
to would ask the same question, west or east?
Those were your options. Utes rolled in to
fill up, every one apparently carrying the
same cargo, a swag, a working dog, an esky
and a forty-four gallon drum. It was a
meeting-point in the middle of nowhere
with a transient population. It had a bar,
restaurant, shower and power — the fourweekly
necessities of long-haul bicycle
touring. I grabbed a homemade meal at the
bar, resplendent with a wall mural depicting
an impossible supergroup of Australian
music greats — performing in a shearing
shed, naturally. Jimmy Barnes fronting the
band, Angas Young on guitar with Kylie, Angry
Anderson, Peter Garret, Michael Hutchence
and a few others I couldn’t recognise making
up the numbers … pub grub and pub art on
the Nullarbor Plain. Perfect.
A ruined well on the edge of the road was the
next day’s camp, only fifteen kms east along
the highway. White Well sits at the entrance
to the Head of Bight whale-viewing area and
the Great Australian Bight Marine Park Whale
Sanctuary. It should have been a leisurely
ride; the girls would be there in ten minutes
in the car and I’d be there within an hour.
The morning had seen us wake to a thick fog
rolling in from the east. It was eerie. What
sound there was on the plain was further
baffled, the sunrise filtered and dampened
You

Me
Land
by the moisture in the air. The sun took hours
for its heat to penetrate the fog but when it
did the day turned into a humid soup. Shorts
and t-shirt weather in the middle of winter.
I set out with clear skies and an empty highway;
the girls passed me quickly. The road
in front a scar across the plain, I stopped
to photograph the empty road, a leading line
melting into the horizon, shimmering in the
afternoon light and heat. Behind me clouds
were growing, ominously dark and foreboding.
I picked up my pace in the saddle, the western
horizon closing in on me, the afternoon sun
disappearing quickly. The sky behind me lit
up; the thunder rolled in the distance. There
was a storm chasing me now and it occurred
to me that I was the only feature of the
landscape. Nothing around me reached above
my knee — I was the only lightning-rod within
cooee. I shifted into the big ring, crouched
into the time-trial position on the bike and
let her rip. Flying across the Nullarbor, just
me and the bike and a storm at my heels, it
was exhilarating, pedal after pedal my feet
traced circles through the air, a giant smile
across my face. This was it … I’d been on the
road for almost a week now and I had begun
to feel a part of the landscape. The sounds
of my tyres on the asphalt were comforting,
the wind across my face was refreshing,
the horizon beckoning. I had a challenge to
overcome now: I had to make White Well before
the heavens ripped themselves apart, the
cumulonimbus clouds now towering skyward.
A tail wind hit, the first fingers of the storm.
It helped me up the pace. I was sweating,
eyes stinging as drops of sweat made their
way down my forehead. The right turn off the
highway was a few hundred metres ahead now
and my sanctuary was only a kilometre down
that winding road. White Well emerged on
the horizon. I was going to make it before
the storm erupted in earnest. Strikes had
been lighting up the road behind me over
and over, but they were still a way off. I
made camp where Myf had already set up the
tent and began cooking. There were many of
us camped there that night. They looked at
me with confusion when I turned up, sweaty,
out of breath and scrambling to get my camera
set-up on my tripod. These were the weather
events I craved as a photographer, the dynamic
interaction between land, sea and sky.
Flashing forks were now marching towards
us with vigour. I wanted to record the noise
of the storm but someone at the campsite was
running a generator, muddying the soundscape
31°3
of the Nullarbor. A strike hit the sign at the
right turn to the camp from where I’d just
ridden, only a kilometre away. The thunder
was almost immediate. Did I capture the
strike? A quick check — I had my shot, just
as the rain hit hard. I snapped the tripod
legs, slinging it over my shoulder as I ran
for the cover of the ruin. The girls had come
to watch the storm, Juno gripping Myf, unsure
of how she felt. I had made the twenty metres
back to the shelter when the sky screamed
white. Sparks flew and the world stood still,
frozen by the strobe of a strike. The thunder
bellowed immediately; we all ducked, not sure
where to go, caught in the open, metres from
shelter. There was a cyclone fence around
the campsite — the strike tore along its line,
spitting sparks as it went. The generator
had cut out as it hit, leaving us in a shocking
silence once the thunder had rolled on,
a silence broken only by screams from Juno.
We were camped at White Well so I could make
Head of Bight as early as possible to capture
the morning light. It was the official end
of the Bunda Cliffs and a sanctuary for the
hundreds of southern right whales who use
the protected waters to nurse their calves.
Spending their summer feeding in the waters
of Antarctica, they return en masse to the
Head of Bight every year, the largest congregation
of the species in Australia. The breeding
grounds and nursery at the Head of Bight are
critically important for the recovery of the
southern right whale.
The ride in was quick, the morning light
harsh on the emerald sea surface, a strong
wind kicking up whitecaps camouflaging
the behemoths, the lackadaisical leviathans;
but they were there. I couldn’t count how
many — the waters were thick with mother
and calf. You could make out a whale song,
a tail slap on the water or a blow creating
a rainbow fountain scattered by the wind.
Whales rolling and sky-hopping, diving and
breaching, calves along-side; white whales
amongst the black, only metres from the
cliff. I have seen whales so many times while
surfing or shooting, but this was something
special. I expected to see whales, but to have
them so close, so plentiful and so oblivious to
me was moving. These giants grow to eighteen
metres, their calves are
131°
born at five metres,
suckling on mother’s milk for almost a year.
We hunted them so heavily in Australian
waters that it was a race towards collapse.
Fortunately for the whales, it was the right
whaling industry that collapsed first.

C
H
APTER
T
H
R
E
E
3’02.4”S
the edges, continually going down as a result.
Any momentum I could gain would be lost
as the bike slid out from under me, trailer
whipping about behind. I’d land in the sand,
my face inches from beautiful desert flowers
blooming in the heat of the day with only
birds for company. Days later, I’d be back
here, but in a car with friends. I could still
make out the marks I had left in the sand
from my falls, testament to how little
traffic there is in the area.
Yatala.
The trees had begun again dramatically.
There was a sign at Nullarbor announcing the
beginning of the Treeless Plain and here was
the end. I was back among the gums. The dirt
had turned red and the sky blue, sun pelting
down on me as I pedalled. The smell of gum
leaves and the Australian bush under a
sweltering sun is unique; it makes me feel
immediately comfortable. I was solo, in a land
I’d never been, among new species of bush and
unfamiliar bird life but the smell was one I’d
known since I was young. It was a beautiful
ride. I’d spent the night camped under the
gums and stars of the Yalata Aboriginal Lands
and riding out the next morning would find me
climbing for the first time. It was a different
feel from the previous week: there were long
corners, bush either side of the road and the
traffic had increased. I would be able to get
off the highway now for much longer periods.
My route was no longer just west to east; I
could now go north and south and double back
and get lost properly. The roads would now
become tracks, dunes would now become highways,
and the beach would now be part of my
route on the right tide and most importantly
I’d now be able to slide into the ocean.
A monumental swell meets me, a fifteen foot
mess, the shape of the beach funneling the
energy into a bubbling cauldron. It was an
intimidating power to witness: the bellicose
sea surface threw itself repeatedly on the
sand where my feet were firmly planted. This
was my first beach since the Merdayerrah Sand
Patch eight days earlier and I was itching for
a swim. But, the rushing in and out of white
water, waves detonating on the sea stacks and
massive swell lines meeting in the bay meant
I’d be staying dry that day. The sea was in an
agitated state and I was alone — I hadn’t seen
another person since leaving Coorabie Farm
earlier that day. The beach was a testament
to the power of the ocean, blowholes and
caves, large-grain sand and a scalloped landscape.
I stopped for an hour to shoot, out of
the sun in one of the ocean caves. While I was
crouched in the cave I had the pleasure of
watching a small pod of southern right whales
breaching off the eastern point of the bay,
apparently undaunted by the thunderous
surf rolling in from the south.
The night descends and with it the fire pit is
lit. Encircling the metre-wide cavity are rows
of metal chairs, the type you’d find in schoolrooms
in 1950. Below each chair sit smoldering
piles of coals, dropped there by a shovel. The
heat from the coals warms you from beneath,
the fire warms you from the front, a freezing
Nullarbor sky above is brilliant in its clarity.
I’d be in the water tomorrow, but for now
I enjoyed the warmth of the burning mallee
root. Sitting a few nautical miles off the
coast from where I was enjoying the fire
was the MV Steve Irwin of the Sea Shepherd.
I made a small farm west of Fowlers Bay that
afternoon. It’s a working sheep farm that
opens its gates to those looking for an overnight
stay and a shower. The farmers had
built shearer’s quarters that would only be
used for a couple of weeks in the shearing
season, deciding to turn them into accommodation
for the rest of the year. There were fires
built ready to go each night, wombats grazing
in the paddocks in the evening and wifi. It was
a welcome stop on the journey. I used my days
there to explore the nearby beaches. I’d been The following afternoon would find me sitting
told about a stretch of coast fifteen-twenty atop another cliff looking across another
kms
57’39.5”E
away along some bugger of a dirt track: bay untouched by footprints. In front of me
Wandilla Beach, an isolated area of the coast, was Mexican Hat Island, clean runs of swell
once signposted, no longer. My ride to Wandilla cracking along the reef, the previous day’s
was tough. It was hot; the hill up was long and mess having abated to reveal perfect lines
the ride down was slow. The road was rutted to of freezing water fanning out to the horizon.
a point where I had to ride in the deep sand on I’d swum in the bay that day, suited up for
Sea
You

Land
the first time since leaving Western Australia
and submerging myself in the pristine waters
— oil, grit and grime floating away from me
as I lay there underneath a crisp winter sky.
I watched as a dust cloud came towards me,
kicked up by a 4WD. It was the first sign
I was getting closer to the town of Fowlers
Bay. They drove up to where I was sitting,
my camera next to me focused on Mexican Hat.
Out poured person after person, all in black,
Jolly Rogers branded across their t-shirts.
It was a small part of the crew from the Sea
Shepherd, a worldwide marine conservation
group who’ve made their name through direct
action on the oceanic battlegrounds. They were
moored in Fowlers Bay on Operation Jeedera
as part of the newly formed Great Australian
Bight Alliance. BP among others were threatening
to drill for oil in the Great Australian
Bight; more worryingly perhaps, they were
looking to drill right in the heart of the
Great Australian Bight Marine Reserve. The
Sea Shepherd crew were in town on a public
education campaign, sailing the South
Australian coastline and offshore waters
taking in the majesty of the region. We had
a brief chat. They’d be hosting a barbecue
in Fowlers Bay the following evening, a
Saturday night and only a half-day’s ride
away. Ten days on the bike, solo, had me
looking forward to spending time with
a few new faces around a fire.
tempted fate by booking the same campsite.
I arrived in the afternoon, The MV Steve
Irwin moored a kilometre offshore. Half the
crew would arrive by tender in the evening,
a skeleton crew always remaining aboard.
The caravan park had a fire pit, lit nightly
at 5PM. It formed the central heart of the
park and extended a welcome to all those who
pulled up a pew. Tonight would see the biggest
barbecue they’d hosted in a long time, people
from all over the peninsula coming to meet
the crew and vent their frustrations at the
possibility of an oil field germinating in
the pristine waters of the Great Australian
Bight. To complicate things more, the crew
of the Steve Irwin are all vegans and a large
percentage of the people descending for the
night were vegan or vegetarian, myself and
Myf included. Fresh food out this far west
is in itself a rarity, let alone delicious
vegan meals, but somehow the hosts pulled
off a miracle, feeding the vegan and vego
hordes with a feast, a true loaves-and-fishes
experience. The fire pit was packed; the
population of the tiny town must have trebled
overnight. Banjos and guitars emerged from
the shadows and beers were pulled from the
ice as the robust conversation continued
through the night, accompanied by a soundtrack
of children playing. I would disappear
early into the tent — I had an appointment
at 5AM on the foreshore of the bay.
Me
The ride into Fowlers Bay was a peaceful one,
all on dirt and not another person on the
trails. The skies remained clear all day and,
with little wind to speak of, it was a perfect
day in the saddle. My only company for the
day were the ubiquitous sleepy lizards and
This American Life podcast. Once again the
roads out there are a tough slog, constant
ruts two inches deep making the ride a slow
one. The ride from Mexican Hat to Fowlers Bay
skirts the edge of Point Fowler, a large active
sand dune system slowly swallowing Fowlers
Bay itself. The dunes migrate with the winds,
forming an intimidating organic backdrop
to the tiny fishing village. Remnants of
buildings of the past remain, many of the
original streets now entirely buried. Historic
structures line the foreshore, juxtaposed
beautifully by the dunes. The town has no
mains power or water, reliant on rainwater,
solar power and generators. Myf had setup
in the Fowlers Bay Caravan Park, the only
camping accommodation in town. We had
stayed here previously on our way to Eucla
when Juno had had her second episode. I have
mixed feelings coming back here and Myf had

31°59’05.5”S
C
H
APTER
F
O
U
R
Fowlers Bay.
I’d posted a photograph from Mexican Hat on
Instagram that evening. A few friends had seen
it and were driving overnight from Adelaide
to surf an offshore reef not too far from where
I was camped. I’d only been on the road for
about ten nights by now, but a friendly face or
two was welcome. I wandered to the foreshore
pre-dawn to where Jye, Franny and Tim had
rolled out their swags in a fruitless attempt
to grab an hour’s sleep after arriving sometime
around 4AM. They’d done the ten-hour drive
on a whim, jet ski on a trailer. The swell was
looking good, if a little unruly, but worth the
risk. I hopped into their car, my first since
leaving Eucla. In half an hour we made the
journey that had taken me six hours in the
saddle the day previous, my tyre tracks still
visible in the dirt. Jye’s 4WD made easy work
of the ruts, deep sand and crevasses that had
caused me so much consternation. Kilometres
disappeared beneath the wheels as we caught
up over a breakfast of fruit. Across a few
dunes, a mud flat, along some winding tracks
and over one final dune, the point presents
itself, massive bays either side, the sun
breaking through the sea fog, a head high
rock cairn the only sign of humanity. I can’t
tell you exactly where I was standing — the
locations of the waves of the Nullarbor are
kept quiet by the surf community. This is
true for most waves along the South Australian
coastline. The search and spirit of adventure
is still alive and well.
The wave takes a few moments to show itself,
but when a line of swell does hit the reef, it
bares its teeth immediately. It’s big, although
with no one in the water, it’s hard to tell
how big. The sun slowly rises behind us, hazy
through the morning fog; the boys are scanning
the lineup; the conversations had are the same
on cliff tops and car parks around the world.
How big is it, you reckon? Where’s the takeoff
spot? Should we hit it? The excitement is
palpable; every set that builds on the horizon
hits the reef to shouts and hoots. The light
is perfect.
Sea
132°26’23.1”E
I’m trying to hurry the boys into their
wetsuits to get out there, but they’re content
to slowly warm up in the morning sun and
kick rocks. I’m off, scrambling down the side
of the cliff, backpack on, tripod over the
shoulder. This morning light only lasts for
minutes and I’m content to shoot a few empty
waves. The speed of the water hitting the
cliff wall below me is phenomenal. The wave
movement is immense, dizzying carpets of
white water rush past me ten metres below.
There are lines of swell as far as the eye can
see, occasionally the surge direction squares
up and shatters across the reef. I’m looking
directly into the barrel — it’s an awesome
sight. I frame the water through my viewfinder,
stacks of sharp limestone in the foreground
and dunes in the background. The wave
spins in the winter light between the two.
I’m under-gunned with lenses on my journey.
I’ve only been able to bring a very basic
photographic kit due to weight and size
limitations. I’ve chosen one camera body,
one wide-angle zoom, one portrait lens
and one telephoto-zoom. Combine that with
a tripod, water-housing, wetsuit, flippers
and a few basic filters and that’s my whole
inventory. All this and a laptop fit into a
hard case, firmly stored in the trailer of
my bike. I’d keep the camera and two lenses
in the handlebar bar for quick access on
the road, but that was it, a very simple kit
that I would be relying on everyday for six
months. It would have to be robust enough
to survive the constant onslaught of bumps
and jarring on a bike over extremely rough
terrain and then be ready to go in sandstorms,
rain, mud, dust, heat, the ocean and in the
air. I had faith in my equipment … I then
had to cross my fingers for a little luck too.
It was refreshing to carry the basic equipment,
and only occasionally frustrating, but
today was one of those frustrating days. My
longest lens is a 200mm, not ideal for such
a wave so far offshore, but that’s one of
the beauties of photography — making the
equipment you have work for you. I love the
challenge of shooting new landscapes and new
waves and this morning provided both. As I
scrambled down the side of the cliff, the boys
went to launch the ski on a nearby beach for
the twenty-minute ride out to the wave. The
swell pulsed on an empty lineup. There was no
one around except me. I shot in the morning
light, just me and the roaring ocean below. It
was glorious. There were a few thumping sets
that morning, but the ocean was still a little
You

Me
lawless. A thick chop on the surface made
it tough when the boys eventually arrived
to find their way in the middle of the bay.
Surfing a new wave in new waters usually takes
a few sets to get a feel of the amphitheatre,
to get an understanding of the wave’s speed
and power. Surfing is unique in that it is so
intricately entwined with the environment.
Waves change shape minute-by-minute, the
water under the influence of a myriad of
elements, wind, swell, depth, temperature,
tide, air pressure. It is a primitive dance of
forces that produces waves perfectly sculpted
for us to enjoy, their fleeting existence and
energy gracing the reefs and beaches along our
coast. No wave is the same, no wave can break
twice. Paddling your board out to a new wave
is always fraught with anticipation, watching
it warp along the reef, feeling the water
temperature, smelling the seascape, soaking
in the water colour. Unconsciously you take it
all in with every duckdive. For the boys today,
they were surfing a new wave in less than ideal
conditions. They survey the lineup from the
ski before Tim grabs the rope.
The wave walls up vertically. It puts the size
into perspective immediately: it’s double
overhead and thick. Tim guns for the shoulder,
the morning glare making it difficult to see.
The three share the rope behind the jet ski all
morning, the coastline deserted save for a few
utes dropping past to check the swell. It’s my
first day off the bike since Eucla. I enjoy the
break from the saddle and the scene playing
out in front of me — the three tackling an
increasingly belligerent sea is an entertaining
one. I walk along the cliff watching the lines
of swell explode in fountains of whitewater.
Wave and wind action have shaped this coast.
I find myself here at a time in our history
when we have managed to enjoy the beauty
of the wave but not yet tamed it. These waves
have pounded these shores for millennia
before I stand here and will continue to long
after I’ve gone. Today however the boys put
themselves inside the spinning cauldron of
the lime-green waves until the wind turns and
the waves become increasingly treacherous.
32°0
.3”S
132°
01.8
You

5’04
Cactus Beach.
C There’s a beach and campsite that exists on
H
APTER
the far west coast of South Australia that has
a mythical quality in the psyche of Australian
surfers, a beach that for decades was talked
about in hushed tones, where the electric
F blue water meets big dunes and big skies.
IV
The trip in from Penong across the iconic
E tri-colour road announces your arrival
to surfing Nirvana, the hallowed sand and
hollow waves of Cactus Beach. Cactus has been
a part of surfing folklore for decades. It is
considered a right of passage for every surfer
worth their salt and is now a beautiful place
59’
to spend time with your family. Its image
has softened over the years as the locals
realised the importance of preserving
their special part of the world. Cactus has
a distinct sense of history written in the
sand dunes from days before forecasts, preinternet,
pre-surf coaching. Synoptic charts
printed in black and white in the newspaper,
you’d hit the road with one board under your
”E
arm and cross your fingers. The campsite
is now conducive to sharing a few days in
relative comfort with a toddler, having
flushing toilets installed and sheltered fire
places, a far cry from the dust-bowl of decades
earlier. I had been looking forward to camping
here with the girls ever since leaving Western
Australia two weeks earlier. Riding in, I began
to feel the first signs of a cold but hoped
the exercise and sun would kill any bugs.
By the time I reached camp it was obvious
that I would be climbing into my sleeping
bag immediately. I knew it was going to blow
and blow hard for a couple of days, so it
looked like my time at Cactus would be spent
lying in a tent sick, shaken and stirred.
The wind began to howl around sunset on
our first night and didn’t stop for three days,
setting wind records for the month of August.
Onshores flying across the sand dunes straight
into our unprotected camp, the campsite
had almost cleared out before it hit. People
smarter than I had seen the writing on the
wall of the tent and made for somewhere far
Land
more protected. Myf had unfurled the rooftop
camper for my arrival, the three of us
thinking we’d be safe and warm under the
thick canvas. As the blow began, so did the
swaying, and rocking, and flapping. We tried
to read a book to Juno above the constant din
of the wind outside. The beam of my headtorch
would occasionally light up Myf’s face — a look
of concern met me. Juno was unfazed by the
maelstrom encircling us atop our Subaru.
She was asleep in minutes, warm between her
mum and dad. Myf and I, however, would not
get to sleep so easily. I tried to listen to a
Hardcore History podcast, on any other night
a guaranteed soporific. Myf attempted to read.
The violent shaking of the roof-top tent only
got worse as the night grew long. There was an
incessant flapping that could only be stopped
by holding my arm out of the fly and grabbing
the loose canvas. I managed to hold on for
an hour before it began to rain. The water
running along my arm and on to the mattress,
all the while the wind increased again. It
became apparent around midnight that I
would have to climb down from the roof-top
ride and set up my own cycle-touring tent
for the three of us, behind any shelter I could
find. It was pitch dark, the wind was howling,
the rain was coming in sideways, and I was
sick. The elements fought hard, and I fought
back, erecting a somewhat misshapen tent
within a few minutes before calling Myf and
saying it was safe to come down. Blankets,
pillows, a mattress and Juno all followed.
She had finally awoken, said ‘very windy’
and promptly went back to sleep in the new
tent. Myf and I collapsed next to her as the
wind increased again outside. I stay cocooned
in my sleeping bag for the next three days,
the wind raging the entire time.
I would find out later on my journey there
were two boats out there in this storm, the
only ones in the Bight. My days cooped up
in the tent pale in comparison to what these
cray-boats had to endure. It is a few weeks
and over 500kms away on a sunny afternoon
in Coffin Bay before I hear the full story
of their wild, storm trapped nights.
The girls have gone beachcombing — three
days of thunderous onshore winds and waves
having delivered a trove of treasures and
reshaped the beach. Juno comes back glowing
with excitement, arms full of seashore finds,
shells, seaweed, shark eggs. The weather
is beginning to clear, the wind dropping
somewhat, not enough to stop the incessant
flapping of my tent, but enough for the girls
Sea

Land
to have a comfortable day on the golden sands
of the beach. It is our last few days together
as a team with Myf and Juno heading back to
Adelaide the next day. The weather is looking
to fine up over the next couple of days which
means I have to get back in the saddle and
get to Ceduna, 100 kilometres east, where
a car waits for me.
I’m standing on the main street of Ceduna,
waiting to meet Dirk, the head of Marine
Parks in the area. It’s still dark when the
car arrives. Dirk gets out to meet me in the
cold. He has invited me along to see some
of the state’s Marine Parks from the air,
a unique angle and invaluable experience.
We make the drive to where the helicopter
is stationed overnight, just outside of Sceale
Bay, an area of the coastline I’m yet to ride.
On a small clearing in the dunes, the chopper
sits, not much bigger than a small car. The
motor takes ten minutes to warm up, the
windscreen fogged in the cold morning air.
The rotor blade finds its rhythm and we pile
in. We’re flying out to Pearson Island, sixtyfive
kilometres off the coast of Elliston, a
granite island teeming with flora and fauna.
The day is one of the few fine days I’ve
experienced so far. The morning sun shines
softly in the winter sky with little wind.
The ocean is calm beneath us as we make our
way out to sea, the Pearson Isles appearing
as jutted teeth on the horizon, the jewels
in the crown of the Investigator Marine Park.
The islands rise out of deep water, iridescent
in the sunlight, protected since the 1960s,
and, more recently, so too its waters. We
are the only people in the area this morning,
no boats in sight, the only movement on
the island coming from the seal and sea lion
colonies as we fly over. It’s a remarkable
sight that grows beneath me as we approach.
streaks of whitewater behind. The northern
anchorage passes below us, brilliant aqua
over white sand, the waters calm. Offshore
it quickly drops to over fifty metres deep;
the colours of the surface change accordingly,
a natural gradient of blue. I change lenses
as we complete our lap of the island and
we make our way back to the mainland, the
flight over too quickly. We fly back along
the coast, farmland meeting the cliffs of
the area, a defined end of the earth. I’ll be
back here on my bike in a few weeks’ time
but for now I take in the resplendent sea
and landscape from the air. By now the sun
is high above us, the landscape below is
saturated in colour. My camera shutter fires
at 1/2500 second, the land below rushing past,
a blur through a 200mm lens.
32°
I strap in with the harness on, the doors are
removed so I can shoot freely out the side of
the helicopter. We rise quickly, wind rushes
in. It’s immediately apparent I’m not dressed
warmly enough for the ride. I can make out
Pearson Island wallabies as we slowly make
our way around the island, the yellowing
lichen-covered granite contrasted by the
brilliant green of the islands’ flora. We skirt
the southern shore. It appears battered and
bruised as it faces the prevailing winds and
waves, cliffs carved out by the elements.
Sea lions swim below, disappearing into
the kelp as we pass. Lines of swell roll onto
the southern coast, retreating back leaving
Me

Sea
You
Ceduna.
C I’ve arrived back on land, still high. I
H
APTER
shake hands with Dirk and thank him for the
phenomenal experience. I pack my bike on the
foreshore and prepare it for the afternoon’s I sleep well, showering in the morning for the
ride to Wittlebee Conservation Park. The girls last time for a few days and taking my time to
S are on the road already — they’re not far off prepare my gear. It’s 10.23 AM when the manager
Port Augusta, their stop for the night. It will drops past and tells me it’s time to move on.
12’24.4”S
IX
be my first night alone on the journey and a The park is empty apart from me and a few
cold one at that. Myf’s left me a little whisky caravans, but checkout time is checkout time
to ease into solo touring.
in Smoky Bay, apparently.
I’m awoken in the morning by the sounds of The ride out to Point Brown is one of the best
the bush. Slow waves crash on the beach over days in the saddle so far — no cars, dirt roads
the dunes, perhaps a hundred metres away. and spectacular vistas, ABC radio playing and
The birds sing in the subdued morning light. the rest of the journey ahead of me. It doesn’t
I’m the only person in the park, something take too long on the road out of Smoky Bay to
that becomes a feature of the next few
months. Days will pass without speaking to
another person. Over the 500 or so kilometres
I’ve covered so far, there have been a few days
where I’ll only see one or two other people,
generally as they pass in a car, windows down,
me catching seconds of music or the smell of
perfume, cigarettes or a pie with sauce, all
smells which linger longer in an environment
without pollution.
The company of birds singing is comforting
as I pack for the day’s ride. It’s a cold but
still morning, something I’m careful not to
take for granted. Still days in the saddle are
so rare this winter that I’m straight into
the ride, mindful that the next blow is only
a refresh of the weather report away. The
bike is riding beautifully at this point. I’m
stacked with supplies left by Myf and feeling
confident. My body is holding up so far — only
saddle sores, knee, Achilles, and back are
giving me trouble — as good as I could hope
for at thirty-four. The ride into Smoky Bay
is an easy one: some dirt, some asphalt.
The wind remains calm.
I’m welcomed to Smoky Bay by an old fella
wanting to know where I’m off to. I tell him
I’m off to spend a couple of nights at Point
Brown, he responds with, ‘Whaay daaya
wannnaa go theeeere? Onnnnllly laacals go
theeere,’ his laconic drawl accentuating the
disapproval in his voice. I thank him and
grab a little fresh food from the general store
before making camp at the Smoky Bay Caravan
Park. Cooking dinner at the camp kitchen,
I can’t help but notice the number of signs
telling you how to behave, NO CLEANING FISH,
NO RUNNING THROUGH KITCHEN AREA, THIS IS AN
AREA FOR COOKING NOT FOR SOCIALISING, NO BIKES.
I count no less than fifteen signs from the
kitchen area all in the negative. I take my
pasta and make for the foreshore, somewhere
I feel a little more welcome.
really feel remote. A sign at the end of the
Point Brown road literally reads ROAD ENDS.
From here it’s fighting deep sand across the
dunes to find a sheltered spot to camp. One of
the beautiful things about capes and islands
is that there is always somewhere protected
from the wind. This evening was no different,
one beach was onshore and blowing a gale so
I rode across to the other side of the point,
found a hummock and set up camp behind it
overlooking a calm bay, swell lines wrapping
around and breaking apart on the shore. There
was a campervan camped at the bottom of the
bay, but apart from them, I was alone. I fell
asleep with my tent door open, the football
on the radio and a small campfire keeping me
warm. It was late August but still freezing
at night. Weather rolled in overnight leaving
striking morning light in its wake, unfortunately
only lasting mere minutes, but
enough time for me to capture a few frames:
thick, dark, storm clouds racing across the
horizon, the sun rising beneath, warm rays
pushing their way through the gaps, raking
the sea surface.
The clouds have brought rain and I try to
collect the rainwater as it slides down the
fly. I’m running out of water quickly. It’s
fifty kms to the next available freshwater
according to my map.

Land
Sea
I’ll have to find a couple of litres before
that. There’s a couple of fishos on the beach
catching enough tommy ruff for a small
village, their bucket brimming with the silver
fish, both pulling in a double header as I walk
up to say g’day. We chat briefly. It’s obvious
they’re not the chatting type so I get to the
point. Could they spare a couple of litres
of water? ‘Didn’t we see you riding through
Smoky Bay the other day?’ The woman asks
me. ‘Yeah, yeah you did.’ ‘Well you should
have got water there,’ she says, as she turns
back to the ocean and casts her line again.
I’m saved by another fisho up the beach who
overhears the conversation and lets out a
laugh. He swings me a couple of litres of sweet
rainwater and offers me all the fresh fish
I can carry. He’s an old surfer from the east
133°44’15.
coast of Australia, doing a lap of our country
with his wife. They’ve had a few friends die in
recent years and decided it’s time to see our
land, stand waist deep in our waters, lie under
our stars and walk our beaches. I wish them
well and get back on the bike for the day,
forty kilometres of dirt ahead of me. I’d
ridden perhaps thirty metres when I hit deep
sand, the bike slipped out from under me and miss their kids. There’s a strong community
the trailer went over on its side. It has bent spirit in Streaky and a strong connection to
the trailer forks hard, angled the rear skewer the ocean, both recreational and commercial.
and twisted the whole trailer’s chassis. The Strong links between land, sea and community
quick release mechanisms that connects the is something I hope to explore photographically
as I make my way along the coast,
bike to the trailer are now a mangled mess.
I sit down and with my tools put the shambles particularly at a time when the need for
back together and try my best to square the marine conservation is beginning to be
trailer. It’s a futile exercise. I’m a couple recognised in the mainstream.
of days out of Streaky Bay and the possibility
of a workshop, so it’s zip ties and a lump of
limestone to get the trailer back into shape.
Any mechanical issue I suffer over the next
few months can be attributed to this incident.
I didn’t realise it at the time, but I’d be
cursing this trailer almost daily from now on.
The landscape is changing again as I get closer
to Streaky Bay, the first big town I’ve come
across. Fields of canola welcome me as does
a blue sky. I’d spent the night before camped
out at a tiny fishing village named Haslam,
drinking bore water and moonshine whisky
around a fire with a couple of gold prospectors.
We talk of the Nullarbor, of the nomadic lifestyle,
of the night sky and of the serendipitous
moments on the road that make for
great campfire yarns. I thank them for
their company and welcome by drawing them
a mud-map to the rich tommy ruff fishing
grounds of a day earlier, guaranteeing them
a double-header.
A friend has put me in touch with his friend’s
parents, Peter and Val, who are happy to put
me up for a night on their sprawling property
on the foreshore of Streaky Bay. Peter, as I’ll
learn, used to run the crash repairs in town
and is happy to give my trailer a bash back
into shape, an expert hand salvaging what
may have been a catastrophic mechanical
breakdown. They invite me into their home
and give me a proper bed for the night, my
first since leaving Adelaide a month earlier.
Proud Streaky locals, they show me around
their property. Having planted some 10,000
native plants a decade earlier, they were
now reaping the rewards with their house
surrounded by bush right up to the shoreline,
a magnet for native birds. Val makes a
home-cooked meal for me, a welcome smell,
I mention that I’m vegetarian and Val admits
that she’s never cooked for a vegetarian
before, although she does have a vego niece.
I tell her it’s no different, that we just don’t
eat meat and she responds by telling me I
don’t look that malnourished. We laugh as Val
cooks up a delicious bake, the freshest veggies
I’ve had in a long time. They tell me they
love living on the west coast, though they
The pride of the service station in Streaky
is a replica of one of the world’s biggest great
white sharks, caught by a young local named
Dion Gilmore. The immense model hangs
suspended from the roof, its jaws permanently
open, confronting you as you enter. After
a five-hour battle with the fish, Dion hauled
in what was then thought to be the world’s
biggest fish caught with a rod and reel. It
was April, 1990. The white shark that Dion had
caught weighed 1520 kilograms and measured
a staggering 5.5 metres. The sheer scale of
the pointer is apparent as you stand alongside
the replica, or lie underneath, pretending
the fish is passing over you. The catch caused
a spectacle at the Streaky Bay wharf, the town
rushing down to watch as a tuna boat arrived,
gantry extended, towing the record catch.
The record stood for just four days. A dead
sea lion pup was pulled out of the water when
the shark was hauled in, rope around its neck
matching rope from aboard the boat.

It was thought the fishermen had used a live
sea lion pup as bait and three years later
they were convicted in court. The Advertiser
reported at the time; ‘The act of taking such
a young sea lion pup must have been a cause
of distress to the pup and its mother.’ Only
a few years later the white shark itself would
be protected from big game fishing, annual
game fishing catches having declined 94% from
1980-1990 in South Australia. Similar drops
were noted Australia-wide and the late 1990s
saw the full protection of the species in all
Australian and Commonwealth waters.
I grab a coffee from the bakery in Streaky as
I pass through the town, a quiet sunny Sunday
morning, Val is volunteering at the op-shop,
and Peter is tinkering away in the shed.
There’s a tourist drive outside of Streaky
0”E
Bay named the Westall Way Loop, although
you’re just as likely to find locals along the
Way as tourists. It’s a dirt road frequented
by surfers, fishos, holiday makers and grey
nomads and it takes in some of the more
accessible attractions of the area. I ride
past smooth shore platforms of granite and
the intimidating Dreadnoughts, a series of
sea stacks marching towards the horizon.
On the right day here, this coast is lit up
red, the afternoon sun wrapping itself
around the granite boulders, smooth and
gritty at the same time, sitting atop sands
of crushed shell. I aim for Speeds Point at
Yanerbie, a protected bay within a bay. An
honesty box meets me on arrival. I throw
five bucks of coin in, it’s a very small price
to pay for the chance to catch with my camera
what is a remarkable vista, a clean swell
rolling past the point. The wind is predicted
to pick up overnight, but for now all is still
and the landscape calming. The sun sets over
the point, a rocky finger jutting out into
the bay, deep green water laps on the sand
just metres from my tent.
I have to head inland briefly the next day,
the Yanerbie dune field creates a remarkably
beautiful roadblock. The unvegetated sand
dunes extend five kms inland, thirty metres
high in places. They provide no protection for
me however against the wind. It is screaming
at me; I scream back. I fight all morning
against the strength of the headwind. At times
I feel like I’m riding backwards, a comical
butt of the wind’s joke. I ride past the dune
field on my right, lakes on my left, mud
beneath my tyres and wind in my face. It’s
hard to hear anything else around me, just
a rushing of wind.
No birds are flying this morning; they huddle
and stare at me as I pass. A young couple
passes me in a car, laughing as they do so.
Fifteen kilometres takes me nearly three
hours, but fortunately, I then switch back
and this horrendous headwind becomes a
tremendous tailwind for the three-hour ride
to the shores of Baird Bay. My journal reads
simply, ‘Hardest day in the saddle yet.’
A white-bellied sea eagle flies overhead as
I make camp. Trying to find protection is
futile and I sleep to the sounds of furiously
flapping tent fabric and shorebirds in their
search for a meal.
The next day sees me make a short ride in
the rain to one of South Australia’s more
interesting landscape anomalies, Murphy’s
Haystacks, a series of pink granite rock
formations sitting proudly in a paddock
surrounded by wheat. Weathered over tens-ofthousands
of years, the inselberg haystacks
are a feature of the landscape, painted red by
a species of lichen. The haystacks were also
considered an important birthing site for the
Wirangu tribe. The rock’s colouring according
to their Dreamtime stories is due to a Waldya
(eagle) being speared by an ancestral warrior
and bleeding on the rocks. I stand there
amongst the wheat stubble as a ferocious
storm brews on the horizon, fifteen minutes
after sunset. The sky is erupting in colour,
deep blue clouds fly towards me, dragging rain
with them; what open sky there is left is a
vibrant orange, wisps of high cloud catching
the colour and adding drama to the panorama.
It’s a fitting scene to what I believe is a
special place. The rain hits hard when it does
and I make a mad scramble to my tent, soaked
in the thirty seconds it takes me to cross the
paddock. I was hoping to be able to photograph
the rocks under a glowing night sky, but
tonight that would not be possible.
You Me

Land
Australia. It will be a unique opportunity to
see the ground I have just covered from the
air, and see some of our least known islands.
The chopper takes ten minutes to warm up;
I try the same by rubbing my hands together
in my cycling gloves.
We take off and within seconds are flying high
above Ceduna and within minutes we’re already
kilometres out to sea. It spreads dark beneath
Nuyts Reef.
us with pods of dolphins occasionally breaking
the surface. We watch as a bait-ball forms in
C I have an appointment at 3PM the next day at the shallows accosted by a lone sea lion. I can
H
APTER
Port Kenny, a short amble of 25 kms. I’m being only image the size of the bait-balls centuries
picked up once again by Dirk. I can’t smell earlier, before we began to fish the ocean on
myself on arrival, but knowing it’s been three an industrial scale. The Isles Saint Francis
days at least since my last shower I take come into view on the horizon, a small series
S the opportunity to grab a coffee and a wash of granite islands, low-lying and sloping.
EV
while I wait. I pull in to the seemingly empty They are well known to mariners as a place of
E
N
Port Kenny Caravan Park and fork out fifteen refuge in a gale. St Francis Island, the largest
bucks for a shower and a coffee. The coffee of the group, sweeps below us as we circle
is granulated instant coffee, barely passable
and the shower is an uncomfortable exercise
in trying not to touch the mouldy walls. The
coffee doesn’t get finished and I feel dirtier
after having showered. Dirk picks me up
on the highway and we make our way back
to Ceduna. I left Ceduna a week ago and
have covered somewhere in the range of 330
around, the morning sun caressing the saltbush
and sheltered beaches, swell rolling in
from the south. A ruined farmhouse overlooks
the spectacle, apparently the only building
on the island. The island has a long history
of agricultural usage. Now, fortunately, it
is part of the Nuyts Archipelago Wilderness
Protection Area along with its surrounding
32°
kilometres. It takes us only two hours in waters. The islands we visit this morning are
Dirk’s ute. It’s a strange feeling, covering so the first land forms named by Europeans in
much ground in such a small amount of time. South Australia by those on the Dutch ship
All the issues I’ve encountered that week and ‘t Gulden Zeepaert that sailed into the Nuyts
every week on the road, the gravel, dirt, mud, Archipelago in 1627. Unfortunately, few
headwinds, lack of water, hills, punctures, records of their journey survive. However,
scratches, bruises, cuts and grazes seem it is widely believed that the St Francis Island
insignificant as we drive along the highway at and nearby St Peter Island are the inspiration
06’
100. We’re staying the night at a motel out the for the Lilliput and Blefuscu islands in
back of a servo. I assure you, no one has ever Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. Swift
been so excited by the sight of a motel room published the classic almost a century after
on the Nullarbor. A double bed and mould-free the Nuyts Archipelago was discovered. In a
shower all to myself, the weather outside wonderful case of art imitating life imitating
sealed by a solid door. I could have watched art, two small islets were officially named
TV if I wasn’t so exhausted. Once again we Lilliput and Blefuscu in 2007. South Australia
had an early start in the morning, back in wouldn’t be visited again by Europeans for
49.5”
the seat of the chopper.
another 165 years.
The door to the hangar opens, the sound We make our way back to the coast to follow it
breaking the stillness of the morning. It’s west to Fowlers Bay and beyond. The tracks and
clear, still and the sunrise a subdued pink. roads I’ve toiled over for weeks melt away in
Dirk and I have grabbed a quick coffee from minutes. Hovering over a beach far west on the
the now familiar Mogas, the 6AM line-up Nullarbor, I think back to how I felt camping
telling me they still brew the best coffee there, how remote I felt, how alone I was and
Sin town. We wait as the pilot, Tim, prepares how much effort it had taken me to get there
the aircaft. We’re on the outskirts of Ceduna. on my bike. Here I was back there with a view
Dirk has offered to take me out to the Isles inland. I could see further than I could have
of Saint Francis, Nuyts Reef and on to Fowlers imagined at sea level. We’d only been in the
Bay, all located within the Nuyts Archipelago air for half an hour and already covered
Marine Park, the largest marine park in South more ground than I could in a week.

My perspective was severely altered; it was
jarring. We followed the coastline, past the
cave where I’d eaten lunch trying to get out
of the harsh sun, past the water tank where
I’d filled up my bottles with stale water, past
the road where I’d crashed, my bike careering
away as I hit deep sand. It all seemed so easy
from 500 feet.
We flew over high-energy beaches, cliffs,
dune fields and rocky headlands before making
Nuyts Reef, thirty kms west of Fowlers Bay.
The reef system is at the meeting point of
two important currents, the subtropical
Leeuwin Current meets the colder waters
of the Flinders Current, creating a unique
environment rich in biodiversity on land and
in the water. We fly above the granite outcrop,
fortunate to bear witness to the health of the
reef system, knowing it is protected from
the ravages of centuries past and future.
The reef system lay below me, waves washing
over the outcrop, white streaks left behind,
a breathing abstract painting revealed
through my lens. The challenge of shooting
from a chopper is one I relish. I’m strapped
into a harness with life jacket on, hoodie,
gloves, beanie, and thermal underwear. It’s
still freezing. The landscape is revealed below
as we climb, brilliant sunshine raking across
132°
the dunes turning the normally featureless
landscape into whipped egg peaks. The sea
below is restless, cross-sections of swell
clashing in clouds of white, devoid of scale.
I’m humbled to be viewing our world from
such a unique angle, to have the expertise
of Dirk talking to me about the marine
environment below. My camera is witness
to minute interactions of wind, wave and
water, the world below ignorant of me as
I pass over, savouring the morning light
and tumultuous sea surface.
We put down outside of Fowlers Bay and make
the drive back to Port Kenny where Dirk
drops me off. The warmth of the afternoon
is a welcome change from the shock of the
cold air in the helicopter. I’m eager to move
on from Port Kenny and make for Venus Bay
for the evening, where prawn boats are moored
to the jetty and the shorebirds welcome me
with a chorus of squawks.
E
Sea You
Me
09’
36.0”

C
H
APTER
E
I
G
H
T
Elliston.
There’s a Far Side comic entitled My Dinner
with Andy. It pictures two men at a dinner
table, one suited and composed apart from a
pie in his face, the other with a wine glass on
his head, expression ridiculous, banana held
aloft, food strewn around him on the floor.
I couldn’t construct a more perfect picture
for my week with Henry. Henry Jock Walker is
an award winning artist, surfer, larrikin and
collaborator. Fortunately I can also call him Richo runs the Elliston Caravan Park and I
a friend. Jock has been an integral part of roll in to find him straddling a ride-on mower,
the LAND SEA YOU ME journey, a supporter from headphones on, finishing off the grassed area
the very beginning and an inspiration for the of the park. He welcomes me with open arms;
adventure before that. We first met sometime it’s been a year or so since we’ve caught up.
in 2012 on top of the cliffs overlooking one I’ve keenly watched his style develop from
of Australia’s best left-hand slabs and briefly afar, creating visceral surf imagery and
after that at almost any art show openings timeless seascapes. His photographs blend
across Adelaide. We bonded over surf and art, a muted sense of an ancient landscape with
and as I grew to know Jock it became more high-action and progressive surfing. Having
apparent that, for his art practice, it was no formal training in photography has allowed
almost impossible
33°38’12.
to separate the two. Surf Richo to break rules he never knew existed,
is art is surf.
to forge a path where others wouldn’t. Living
on the coast has also allowed him into the
Jock was always going to make it out onto the hidden spaces and secret coves that the
open road and join me for a few days; it was occasional passerby would never have the
just a matter of a swell lining up. When I got privilege of seeing. He’s a unique individual,
the call, I had made Elliston where we had formed by and moving to the pace of the
first met four years earlier. He was on his unique west coast. The beginning of his
way with a mate riding shotgun in his van— photography however was not so enigmatic.
Henrinetti — boards stacked in the back, boxes
of fruit and veggies, cereal, milk, beer and
a gas stove. The bare essentials for a mission
west. I was at the bakery, grabbing a pastie
I had been longing for since being dropped
off at Port Kenny days earlier, when he rang,
frothing down the line telling me he was on
his way, that the conditions were looking
good and to expect him the following night.
In my overnight camp at Walkers Rocks, I
wake to a beautifully still morning, steely
grey sky and warbling birdsong. When I walk
across the dunes to the beach for my morning
shower and dish cleaning ritual in one, I look
across the clean swell, but see that weather
is on the way. It’s only a short, easy ride into
Elliston, a short stretch of dirt road and then
only ten kms into town and I’m looking
forward to the bakery and a pub meal. Then
the rain hits, a sudden downpour; I can’t see
more than a few metres in front of me and
by the time I manage to wrangle my raincoat
from the saddle bag I’m soaked through.
The pastie and coffee at the bakery now
sound better and better. This is the bakery
where years earlier I had first encountered
a photograph by the enigmatic Richo, a worldclass
photographer and someone else I’d been
looking forward to catching up with on the
road. It’s a large print on metallic paper
of the jewel in the crown of waves in the
region, writ large on one of the bakery
walls. A thumping, wide, left barrel shot
taken from the water. Richo’s begun to make
a serious name for himself whilst quietly
going about his work along the rich coastline
he calls home.
134°5
We go for an evening drive in Richo’s Landcruiser
along the cliff top at Elliston. I want
to shoot his portrait in my light, but his
landscape. We chat as we pass the bays and
waves of the area; he talks of growing up
in Elliston, surfing, sharks and photography.
He recalled collecting bottles as a kid, saving
the coin to make trips to Cactus with his
uncle over the school holidays, of growing
up with his now-wife Fiona, raising their kids
and the carefree lifestyle they chose when
they made the move to Elliston. He talks of
Fiona’s father showing him a website one day,
‘It was Clark Little’s work, and I thought,
wow, I haven’t seen anything like this before.
From that night it was game on, bang! I want
the exact camera he’s using: found out what
Me

Land
camera he shoots with, Nikon D3, found out
what housing he shoots with and pretty well
mimicked him.’ This was years ago now and
Richo has developed his own recognisable style
since then, mixing the whimsical, the absurd
and magical west coast light. Richo approaches
photography in his own way, moving at his
own pace, interpreting his own seascape and
landscape with a reverence and respect for
the natural world and history of the region.
He eagerly grabs tips from the many travelling
photographers who pass through town, all the
while forging a unique artfulness, one of the
more difficult things to achieve in a world
increasingly saturated by imagery. ‘KB by KB’—
his photographs are downloaded on screens
around the world within moments of capture.
Photographers today can reach a larger
audience and their work can travel further
that at any time in history and photographers
like Richo have struck a chord in the digital
space, creating works that speak a universal
language.
Sea
I pile my gear in his van, leaving my bike
at Richo’s, and we head off into the night,
a few hours drive ahead of us, once again
covering ground I’ve covered over weeks
and weeks. Kilometres just roll underneath
us in minutes. We camp under the stars,
the fine weather in the evening a good
sign for an early start in the morning.
You
Richo stands tall on the edge of the Elliston
cliffs for his portrait, the sky brooding
in the background, discussing the next few
days and his plans. He’s heading west with
a few mates including Craig Anderson, Dane
Reynolds, Shyama Buttonshaw and Dion Agius,
a few of the world’s best surfers who are not
constrained by contest surfing. They travel
the
6”S
world, chasing the best swells and waves,
living the dream and selling the lifestyle.
They’ll be looking to surf a wave in the desert,
some 500 kms west, a wave few have conquered
with paddle power alone. They’re accompanied
by another photographer, John Respondek,
and a bevvy of filmers. It will be a spectacle,
a historic session in our waters. Richo tells
me he hopes to snag something special. I’ll
3’00.0”E
be heading there too, but with Henry Jock
Walker. He plans to surf the same wave, but
for entirely different reasons. Richo and I
take a slow drive back to the caravan park —
we’ve both got to clean our lenses and charge
batteries.
Back in my tent, Jock calls me and tells
me he’s bringing dinner. I hear his horn as
he enters the caravan park, a kangaroo leg
proudly displayed across the front of his van,
still dripping blood. It’s an entrance fitting
of Jock — life for him is a performance art
piece. He didn’t want the leg to go to waste
after the roo was hit by a car. In hindsight,
he tells me, it was a bad decision — the meat
was horrid by all reports, a vein of adrenaline
running throughout the meal.

C
H
APTER
N
IN
E
Land
31°55’42.0”S
Far West Coast.
The overhead sun is harsh, even for this
time of year; the ocean is unforgiving, the
land-scape characterised by rock spires,
crags, cliffs and scree. It’s early morning.
I’m sitting on a cliff top with my camera
over-looking one of the areas newly-discovered
waves. It’s a right-hand backless beast. This
is the second time, this journey, I’ve ended
up here. Today’s conditions are a little better
though and the lineup is host to eight or ten
of the world’s best freesurfers, including
Craig and Dane. I’ve been shooting all morning.
I’m not the only one this time however;
there’s a couple of photographers bobbing
about in the channel, one of them Richo.
There’s also a couple of jet skis idling with
photographers on board, and myself and
renowned local photographer Shane Smith
scratching up and down the cliff face trying
to snag something unique. I passed through
this area weeks ago on my bike — there was
no swell then and the whole stretch of coast
was devoid of anyone else, the only exception
being the occasional Grey Nomad, ‘Adventure
Before Dementia’ stickers plastered across
their bumper.
Today, with a light northerly and a mid-range
swell, there are people and cars everywhere,
many driven across the country to spend a
couple of days in the desert. Craig and Dane
are both bobbing about in the bay, 150 metres
offshore. I’ve seen them both surf before,
but to see them in my home waters, without
contest jerseys and at a heaving heavy wave is
something special. It’s an incredibly special
landscape out here, the interaction between
land and sea is arresting, the amphitheatre
that I watch over is evolving and devolving
with the light, with fluctuations in wind,
swell and mood of the sky. The area is rich
in colour and movement, a fitting interaction
to host the surfers as they battle an intimidating
wave. I ask Craig what it is about the
landscape that attracts him back time after
time. He tells me that having travelled the
world his whole life surfing, nothing comes
Sea
close to the freedom of the outback or
Great Australian Bight. ‘It’s something hard
to explain, but it holds a very special place
in me; maybe it’s all the good times I’ve
had with friends so far from civilisation.
No one can hear us hoot and laugh. Or maybe
it’s the rich history you can feel in the
soil when you’re walking barefoot. Being
out here is truly incredible.’
Jock, on the other hand, has an affinity
with the absurd, beautifully captured in
his process of surf-painting: where he surfs
the wave and makes a painting at the same
time. He’s been surf-painting for a few years
now; the performance walks a line between
transcendent and ridiculous. He has a show
coming up in Melbourne and he has come
out west with the intention of creating
a few works, physically collaborating with
the seascape.
The lineup has cleared out, Dane has paddled
in, Craig has taken a horrific wipeout and
limped in, holding a few ribs, rattled but
not beaten. The wave is a beast to tame
at its best and today it’s a little unruly.
The morning session has already dealt a few
drubbings, including the water photographer,
John Respondek being caught inside on one of
the sets of the day, and Shyama Buttonshaw
on the wave catching a rail and being sent
over the falls. The two met underwater,
Shyama’s leg-rope catching and strangling
John and dragging them both thirty metres
underwater. It shook them both. John
recounts the incident to me.
‘I had been shooting from the ski for a couple
of hours and decided to risk the sharky
waters and try to get a different angle. It’s
a really wild wave that breaks all over the
place and is crazy powerful. I kept edging
closer and closer in front of the wave until
of course came the biggest, meanest wave
of the day. I was freaking out more than
ever and started swimming my hardest, but
realised I wasn’t going to make it. The biggest
wave of water I have ever seen was folding
over and my mate Shyama was speeding along
it. The wave kind of doubled up and Shyama
got slung in the lip and landed straight on
top of me. We got tangled up as hell and his
leggy ended up wrapped around my throat
and held us down for what seemed like
forever. I finally came up and they said I
was white as a ghost. Easily the scariest
moment of all my fifteen years as a surf
photographer.’

The peanut gallery is starting to fill up and
Jock feels that the time has come to paddle
out and paint a canvas. It’s a true performance
piece we are about to witness. Watercolour
paper in his teeth, paint tucked in his wetsuit,
he paddles his way out past the break. We
stand to witness Jock towed into his first
wave. The swell jacks up hard as it hits the
reef, he frantically searches for the tube
of paint, dropping the canvas as he does so.
Falling from his hands it wraps around his
leg. Matt Barkway who had a view from the
water laughs hard as he describes his view,
‘imagine someone searching their pockets
frantically for their car keys, patting down
their body from chest to thigh, except they’re
in a six foot slab.’ It’s a sublime performance.
Jock is swallowed whole by the wave. He’s
far too deep and lacks momentum; he’s held
under and forced to surrender to the oceanic
maelstrom, canvas grasped in his fist. He pops
up. This is the heaviest surf he has attempted
and I’m mindful of the reef below as I watch
from hundreds of metres away, atop the cliff.
It’s not long before he’s back on the rope
behind the jet ski, piloted by Pete Tomlinson.
Pete spies a line of swell, and, in a skilled
dance, lurches forward, matching the speed
of the ski with the approaching surge. Jock
stands tall and feels the water start to wall,
transferring his momentum from the power
of the jet ski to the power of the wave — this
rotating energy that has passed through the
ocean, a long period south-west groundswell,
created perhaps hundreds if not thousands of
kilometres away, unobstructed until it feels
the reef beneath Jock’s feet. The wave begins
to throw violently, energy is transferred
in seconds; he’s enveloped in the wave as it
thunders along the reef, paint and canvas this
time meet. His board chatters, rails painted
in Jock’s colours, orange and blue, the lip
overhead sapphire and the canvas dripping
black acrylic. There’s hoots from the cliff
top gallery, a car horn blares. He’s threaded
the barrel and made his mark. Once again Matt
Barkway is there on the shoulder, one fist
raised in triumph as a crested tern flies past.
Jock is euphoric as he makes the long paddle
back, desperately trying not to lose the
canvas he has just created, repeatedly rolled
by gurgling lines of whitewater eight foot
high. As he climbs the cliff we are all eagerly
awaiting his arrival. There’s fifteen of us,
at least, standing on a landscape unused to
performance art. He emerges over the edge
proudly holding a unique work, impossible
to separate from the surfing performance.
132°34’40.5”E
Performance art manifested on a canvas.
We spend the afternoon on the cliff top
talking surf, a casual ritual repeated the
world over in carparks, on beaches, in cars,
on balconies, post-surf banter, the same in
any language, the same questions repeated
over generations. Swell hanging around for
long? Wind? Where’d you surf? Oh yeah, get
a few? Who was in the water? Inco? Onshie?
Few crew? Cars lined up overlooking the
lineup. Myf has always said how jealous
she is of the language of surfers, that
we can travel anywhere in the world and
converse with strangers without pretence
or prejudices and within a few sentences
establish a rapport. It is no different here,
this afternoon, on the cliff. We all speak
the same language, bantering until sunset.
Everyone then heads off in different
directions. We make camp nearby and settle
around the fire. Richo shows me a few shots
he’s taken that day, a couple of iconic
images, for sure. Our cameras are passed
around the fire, everyone there eager to get
a look at the small LCD screens, showing the
beauty and carnage of the day’s surf. Smiles
are plastered across their faces, lit up by
the glowing screen — a few surfers, artists,
a couple of photographers and a bottle of
whisky, the desert dream.
Jock and myself spend the next few days
enjoying the remnants of the swell and fine
weather. I feel the pull of the bike, because
I’m away from it. I feel like I’m cheating or
taking a holiday from the saddle, but at the
same time it gives me the opportunity to
photograph places I’ve already ridden past,
another angle, different light. We spend a
day back at Cactus, and another further west.
The opportunities for photographing Cactus
are limited, offering a request that you
enjoy the environment without the need to
document it visually. Cactus Beach is part
of a nationwide surfing reserve system, that
aims to preserve the environment and waves
for future generations. A short statement on
the campground information sheet outlines
the aims of the surfing reserve. ‘The Point
Sinclair National Surfing Reserve is dedicated
to the preserving of the coastal environment
and the unique feeling of surfing in this
pristine location. To this end the PSNSR
is opposed to surf contests, jet skis and
commercial photography and publishing in
the area, as they may lead to degradation of
this uniqueness. Please help us keep Point
Sinclair and Cactus unique by enjoying the
environment and taking home just your
Me
You

Land
memories.’ The same sentiment, but in other
words can be found scrawled across a post
or on the back of a street sign and just reads
FUCK OFF CAMERAS.
It’s a slow drive back to Elliston and my bike,
the boys exhausted after three salt-encrusted
days. Waiting for us on arrival is a bloke named
Boordo, stretched out on the lawn. He’s just
done the drive from Adelaide. Over a final meal
before hitting the road to Adelaide, the boys
recount the past few days: who ripped, who
jagged wave of the day, the swell, the wave,
the desert. Boordo listened on, frustrated
to have missed the now-dying swell but he
insists there is a glimmer of hope for a small
wave in the morning. I’d met Boordo a couple
of times before — he’s hard to miss, heavily
tattooed and intimidating. He’s one of them
locals you’re meant to avoid, or not look at in
the eye while you’re in the surf, or not talk
to in the pub. Except of course, none of that
is true. He now invites me for a banana split
at the Elliston Pub, his shout. I want to shoot
his portrait before hitting the road once more
in the morning. We make plans to meet early,
the weather’s looking good and I want to get
back in the saddle.
Boordo had said he’d drop past about 8.30AM
so I was surprised to see him at 7. I was just
brushing my teeth when he arrived itching to
go for a surf. He’d got a text from Craig saying
he was hitting up a wave an hour away and
that it was clean and uncrowded. We arrived,
Deftones on the car stereo, only one other car
in the carpark. Boordo suited up and I picked
up my camera. I was at my favourite break to
shoot, gorgeous morning light falling over the
cliff edge and little wind. Black walls of water
turning blue as the sun made its light felt.
Schools of fish surrounded the boys as they
sat on their boards, waiting for the swell
to warp into itself as it hits the reef only
metres below the surface. These are the
mornings that made me pick up a camera
in the first place.
There’s subtle changes in the light — you’re
treated to it every wave you ride. The ocean
is black beneath your board, its surface
refracting and bending
33°
light into a conveyor
belt of colour as it walls in front of you,
illuminating through the wave that curls
and cocoons you. It is a moment never to be
repeated — that wave will never break again;
that energy that has travelled innumerable
kilometres now is dissipated through the
grumbling whitewater, through the cracking
sound of water on water, and through your
body as you’re teased, tossed and tumbled.
These feelings, sights and sounds are what
I have wanted to capture through photography.
Here I was, living that dream. The same
feelings on a board, I now experience through
the lens. The same stoke I got from surfing,
I now get from making a photograph.
That’s why I’m here, that’s why I’ve ridden
over a thousand kilometres so far, that’s
why I’m burnt, hungry and tired. I’m here
to make photographs; I’m here to meet the
people of our coastline, to see the sun rise
over the cliff face, to watch schools of salmon
swim below the surface in the morning light.
I’d be back on the bike and charging east
later that afternoon, but not for long.
Sitting in the ocean, before sunrise, just
yourself and a couple of mates as the sky
turns from deep purple to red to orange
to yellow — all the while, the lines of swell
creep from the horizon towards you. The
sleep is washed from your eyes as you
duckdive the first wave, the sharp cold
offshores showering you with spray from
the lip as you surface. It’s almost silent
out there, not much banter between you,
only the breaking waves tearing the silence.
Me

Sea
As surfers, we get to experience some unique
places and wild spaces that many others will
never see. We naturally seek out areas of the
world far away from people — the less people
in the line-up the better. We roll out our
swags with a myopic vision of uncrowded surf,
morning offshores, bakery lunches, afternoon
naps, and late afternoon glass-offs. We spend
hours climbing along cliff tops carrying only
the essentials: boards, wetsuit, water bottle
and a couple of pieces of fruit. In groups of
three or four, we pile into vans, utes or
station-wagons and hit the open road for hours
on end. It’s a unique lifestyle and one many of
us mold our working lives around. The search
for waves is absolute; the landscapes we
experience are often a bonus.
This was one of my motivations in having Myf
and Juno join me for the far west coast leg.
To see and feel a land so alien from our own,
yet so close, to share with them the dunes
of Fowlers Bay, the silence of the Nullarbor,
or the hallowed sands of Cactus Beach. Places
I usually experience with mates, I could now
share with family. I feel the same excitement
when friend and fellow photographic artist,
Brendan Hinton, messages me to say he wanted
to put Adelaide in the rear view mirror for
ten days and join me on the road. We’d met
a couple of years earlier whilst both studying
at the Centre for Creative Photography and
shared a love of adventure photography and
non-traditional art practice. He’d never
ventured this far west and wanted to
experience a few days of the journey with me.
I was elated to once again have some company
and particularly the company of a photographer.
It had been a couple of weeks since
Henry had made his way back to Adelaide and
the loneliness was once again creeping in.
Despite shooting plenty of surf with great
action, I’m beginning to struggle with other
elements of my work. My time on the road
had given me an extended period of some of
the most uninspiring light a photographer
would never wish for.
Weeks at a time dealing with flat, high
overhead cloud with little contrast and no
significant lighting events. Motivation behind
beginning the journey in July was my love
of South Australian hibernal light — the soft
winter sun, the barrelling afternoon light
wrapping itself around anything in its
path, the warm lit foreground with a heavy
foreboding background, the chiaroscuro magic
that sets photographers salivating. I’d seen
very little of it. I was working hard trying
to make something out of the hand I had
been dealt and having another photographer
alongside would perhaps provide the extra
motivation and inspiration I felt was lacking.
EN52’18.4”S
Sheringa.
C
H
APTER
T
You
Brendan had recently bought an old bus named
Tina; it was decked out with a kitchen, solar
panels, bed and fridge. He had picked it up for
a song and wanted to test it out in the desert.
He arrived after an exhausting fifteen-hour
drive from Adelaide, fridge full of fresh
vegetarian food, cold Swell Golden Ales,
gas canisters, spare tubes and bearing gifts
of top shelf whisky from our studio mates
at The Mill in Adelaide. I was in my tent,
listening to the football on the radio when
I heard the distinctive and welcome sounds of
a 1975 Toyota Coaster struggling up a wet dirt
track. I had been stranded for two days due to
another mechanical problem. My only company
were fishos camped a few hundred metres away
cruising around the dunes on motorbikes.
They’d been at it the entire time I’d been in
camp; just when you thought there was some
respite, they’d fire them up at two in the
morning and hit the dunes by moonlight.
I was crossing my fingers they would run out
of fuel, but apparently they were well stocked
with both petrol and cans of Bundy Rum.
Brendan rolled in under dark looking relieved
to have found me, having attempted a few
shortcuts across increasingly deteriorating
roads. He’d tried to take the bus from Tooligie
to Sheringa via Nowhere Else Road but had
taken a wrong turn somewhere along the way.
‘The road turned into a track which turned
into a trail and then got worse,’ he said.
After thirteen hours, and the fuel gauge
below empty, he had to grovel before the
owners of a fish-n-chip shop-cum-petrol
station that was just closing.
‘I’d been caught in a storm and all the windows
on the bus had leaked, the odometer had
stopped working so I had no idea how long
the five kilometre track to your camp was.
I drove over a rock garden, along a cliff edge
and through a sand pit snaking down a hill

Land
until I finally came across a bunch of beat It is a stretch of coastline that holds a
up old 4x4s and dirt bikes. A bloke came palpable sense of dread, unforgiving, the
swaggering over with a shovel in one hand reefs and offshore rock spires adding to
135°10’17.
a can of Bundy in the other; he grunted that the theatre. The outcrops and gutters had
there was another camp not too much further claimed the life of a young fisho, the boat
up the road. With high beams on and a light he was crewing wrecked when their craypot
bar beaming Brendan finally had caught
line fouled the propeller. Two other crew,
a glimpse of my camp.
including the captain, survived the wreck
even as they tried in vain to save their
Roads out here appear and disappear with mate in his struggle with the undertow.
regularity. Most of them have yet to meet the
digital age and, once you’re off the highway, Photographically, even in the horrid light
you enter a labyrinth of tracks made by
surfers and fishos. Any attempt by council
to add signage is met with a quick response
by locals looking to keep their surf and
fish spots off any outsider’s radar. Signs
disappear, are turned around, are vandalised
or just removed and thrown into the bush.
Locals know when a road is coming up by
subtle signs unapparent to untrained eyes —
breaks in the treeline or unassuming rocks
by the side of the road. Brendan had just
experienced this, in the dark with headlights
from 1975 and after an exhausting drive
wrangling Tina along our highways and noways,
stopping frequently to refill her
forty litre tank at every ‘banjo-playing,
Deliverance-looking, back-country petrol
station along the way.’ Welcome to the
west, mate.
We were camped at Sheringa Beach, an
extravagantly diverse stretch of coastline
with long, sweeping sandy beaches, abrupt
cliff edges, offshore islands and outcrops,
stretches of sand dunes meeting the sea and
kilometres of 4WD tracks along the perimeter.
I had spent the day before Brendan’s arrival
walking the cliffs and beaches, shooting under
flat light, uninspired. The next day however,
shooting in the same conditions with another
photographer, I was reinvigorated. Showing
Brendan around familiar landscapes was like
seeing them again for the first time. I once
again had the patience required to make
photographs in challenging light, having
someone to chat to while doing it. The past
week of mechanical issues had directly
affected my photography and added to the
feeling of foreboding and a fear of not being
able to complete the journey. We spent the
morning shooting Sheringa before heading
to one of my favourite stretches of cliff in
the area: wild vistas, windswept plains and
overhanging rock devoured by the constant
onslaught of the Southern Ocean. Cliffs here
form up to one hundred metres high with
occasional caves, rocky reefs and small bays.
we continued to face, it is a rich area, the
sea surface and landscape dynamic. One of
the beautiful aspects of photography when
working en plein air is that it is impossible
to make the same photograph twice. Having
two photographers standing metres apart
will always produce different results,
different interpretations of the same scene,
bringing our own prejudices, our own style,
our own outlook. Twin tripods standing firm
on the cliff-top, cameras attached sipping the
afternoon light, 1/250th of a second at a time.
We made our way to Point Drummond by
evening and set up camp overlooking a
sweeping bay with sand meeting a cerulean
sea in the fading light. As I look out across
the ocean I think about the ways that even
my best-laid plans for this journey have been
undone by incidents large and small, and all
I can do is to ride with them. I was only
kilometres from making this very campsite
days earlier when my trailer skewer snapped.
I was a couple of days ride out of Elliston, I’d
camped the previous night at Lock’s Well and
endured another night of screaming onshores,
rain whipped up and whistling against my
tent. Camped on the only flat spot in the area,
right behind the only shelter in the area —
a drop-dunny. It was a smelly, unpleasant
night in a phenomenally beautiful location.
The morning saw more weather on the horizon
and an extremely hard but mercilessly short
climb out of the beach. I was aiming to make
Point Drummond that night, seventy-five odd
kms, much of it off-road. It would be a long
day in the saddle but an enjoyable one. I was
feeling fit, the day had cleared into a sunny
afternoon and the bike was riding beautifully.
I had started to find a fitting pace physically
and emotionally. All seemed well. The road was
quiet, a few trucks and a couple of caravans,
quieter again when I hit the dirt. Once I’m on
the dirt I can relax, the helmet can come off,
the radio can go on and I can find my own line
on the road. My most enjoyable days would be
on dirt, regardless of the fact that my speed

Sea
halved. You can see any cars from a mile off by
the dust they kick up and hear them coming
equally well from behind. Many days would
pass
9”E
on dirt where I wouldn’t see more than
one or two cars and occasionally no one at all.
I was fifteen kilometres off the highway, just
me amid the fields of canola with a soundtrack
of football finals on ABC radio. I’d pulled over,
leaned the bike on a gate to make a photograph
when I heard a catastrophic clunk. There was
my trailer on its side again, this time however
the damage was final. The trailer had
snapped the rear skewer, one of the few parts
on the bike I couldn’t fix myself on the road,
a direct result of the crash weeks earlier
at Point Brown. I was stranded, only a few
kilometres from my camp. I retrieved my
map and turned on my phone — I had reception.
I examined the options in my head. Should
I camp the night and deal with it tomorrow?
Should I call in a massive favour? Walk down
to the homestead I saw an hour ago? I couldn’t
limp on this time; I would have to get a lift.
I was half way between Port Lincoln and
Elliston. I knew people living in both. I didn’t
want to go to Port Lincoln yet, I’d be missing
out on too much coast, I had to go backwards.
Elliston it was. I gave Boordo a call. ‘What’s
going on man?’ ‘Hey brother, you up to anything?
Feel like making a two-hour round trip
to pick up a stranded cyclist?’ It was Saturday
night, 6PM during footy finals.
Boordo’s 4WD made its way up the dirt track
to where I was stranded, casting a miserable
figure, sweat-stained and stinking. We loaded
the bike, trailer and gear into the 4WD and
made our way back to where Boordo was living
in Bramfield, about ten clicks inland from
Elliston. I spent four days shacked up with
Boordo, waiting for the spare part to arrive.
The mail only arrives on Wednesdays and
Fridays. The $20 part finally arrived and I
was straight back onto the bike, covering the
same ground back to Sheringa and now Point
Drummond where I stood looking out to sea.
Brendan had the forethought to load up the
bus, Tina, with a good amount of wood. We
made a fire, cooked up and relaxed into the
evening, one of the few nights where no wind
was predicted. It was Juno’s birthday the next
day and I had made sure we were in telephone
range when we set up camp. Missing her
second birthday hurt … a lot. We woke the
next morning to a dreamscape. There was
swell running, offshores, untouched beach
and a clear, crisp blue sky.
You
We were meant to move on, but the choice
was made over breakfast and coffee, cooked up
in Tina, not to go anywhere that day. I called
Juno on Skype, showed her where I was
camping; she would have loved it. We put on
wetties, I loaded my camera into its housing
and we went for a bodybash. The water was
clear, cold and clean. It could have been a
summer’s day. The Queenslanders camping
next to us couldn’t believe we’d enter the
water — way too cold, too sharky, too remote.
The very reasons we were there. We finally
had some soft winter sun to work with and
a landscape to explore.
Craig, a friend from primary school, messages
me to say he’s in the area for work, and
wanting to catch up, especially given that
we’re camped in his favourite abalone spot.
He too had been following the journey on
Instagram and perfect timing and weather
meant he’d be there in the afternoon, rolling
in, boot filled with wood, beer and a swag.
He wasted no time suiting up, screwdriver
between his teeth, mask and fins on, he dove
straight in and within a minute was back at
the surface, a plate-sized greenlip in hand.
‘Did we want more,’ he shouted bobbing at
sea level. ‘Nah mate, one should do us,’ Craig
cheekily trying to convince me that abs aren’t
animals, more of a vegetable with no nervous
system. Grabbing a couple of smooth rocks,
still dripping wet he proceeded to tenderise
the meat violently. I was expecting the
mollusk to splatter everywhere, but it held
together, reminding me of the consistency and
texture of a raw steak. The boys were looking
forward to frying it up that night on the fire,
beer battered. Before the evening descended
however we were treated to a fog and light
show across the bay. The thin sea fog began
rolling in from the south and slowly enveloped
us. We made our way down to the shore and
shot the weather event. Sounds were muted
and the pastel colours and light heavily
filtered through the fog. It was a surreal
moment, waves lapping at my feet. This
snap-shot reminds me once again why I’m
here; this was why I put my pedal down day
after day. To find new landscapes, new waters
to swim in, and to inhale crisp sea fog.
A squall comes in overnight. We wake to an
overcast day and onshore winds, the magic
of the previous day now just photographs
on hard drives.
Mount Greenly might not register on any
mountaineer’s radar. In fact I’m pretty sure
it shouldn’t qualify as a mountain, but it is
Me

Land
a spectacular climb with a pretty remarkable
view. Named by Flinders in 1802, it rises
305 metres above the surrounding landscape
(five metres over the 300 required to qualify
as a mountain, so I’m told). The hour walk
to the summit is one remarkably diverse
in flora. As you ascend, the trees turn into
shrubs which then turn into carpets of
wildflowers. Granite outcrops are scattered
along the ascent, apparently well known
to rock climbers. The path however is not
marked; it is a choose-your-own-adventure
style of scale. The wind was howling onshore
on the day Brendan and I climbed and there
was the constant threat of squalls. We’d watch
a rain band for an hour until it hit, finding
what little shelter we could leeward of a
granite boulder. It was blowing hard on the
climb, winds funnelled by the landscape,
blustery updrafts a feature of the mountain,
as were resident wedge-tailed eagles. High
above, effortlessly gliding in the updrafts,
you’ll find these majestic birds of prey.
Craig had warned us that they try and scare
you, swooping down to try and knock you off
the mountain to feed on your carcass. True
or not, they cast a formidable silhouette
against the altostratus cloud.
We made the ascent in a little over an hour,
the constant squalls slowing our progress.
Brendan was shooting rolls of black and white
film, Ilford FP4 and HP5, and a few digital
frames too. One of the benefits and joys of
personal work is having the freedom to shoot
different subjects while experimenting with
different equipment and techniques. A rock
cairn finally signified the summit, after many
false pinnacles. We placed our own rock and
took in the view. Fields of canola in bloom,
grazing cattle, dunes, lakes and the serrated
coastline formed a commanding vista with
the ever-present storm clouds heavy on the
horizon. The descent was fast and easy, drawn
on by knowing the prospect of a warm meal
and a cold drink at Coffin Bay that evening.
The conversation flowed easily as it does
while bushwalking. I can’t help but feel that
many of the world’s problems would be better
served if the opposing sides just went for
a hike and sat around a campfire together.
We made the canola fields at the base of the
mountain as another rain squall hit, the wind
ever-increasing. It was a damp, cold day but
the climb had been a highlight in my whole
journey; fantastic to get off the bike for
an afternoon and feel the earth beneath my
feet … and a whole different muscle group
yell in pain.
We make Coffin Bay, the beautiful, pictureperfect,
idyllic Coffin Bay. The shops are
still open and we have time to grab a couple
of vego burgers, before heading straight to
the National Park on the outskirts of town,
passing kangaroos and emus on the main
street as we did. The weather was still coming
in hard and our options for camping were
limited in the park as the light rapidly
disappeared. We made camp overlooking
Golden Island on Point Avoid. The name of
the point should have given us fair warning
but it would have to do, the wind hammering
us as we arrived, the ocean in front of us
a mess of swells and currents, the island
refracting the swells into right angles,
meeting in an oceanic maelstrom between
the point and Golden Island. The light quickly
fades, the night is thick black, heavy cloud
covering any stars and a waning gibbous moon.
The bus is rocked by the wind. The ocean and
sky are restless.
Morning arrives to a fiery sunrise, but
the wind still howls. We move on quickly
to search for a sheltered spot in the park
for brekky and coffee. We find it along the
glorious road that twists and winds through
dunes and scrub, past beaches and along
cliffs. The moon is setting as we sit and
enjoy the morning air, coffee freshly brewed
on Tina’s stove. A goanna meanders past,
as do mobs of emu, chicks at their feet.
Brendan and I spend the morning walking the
trail along the Coffin Bay foreshore and past
the pier where Tenacious, a leather jacket
boat, has just unloaded her cargo after five
days at sea. I’d met Heydar, her skipper and
a Port Lincoln bloke, many times before in
the surf or through my viewfinder. He’s a
fixture along the Eyre Peninsula, having spent
almost two decades travelling up and down her
highways in the search of waves and along her
waters in search of fish. His crew consisted of
a gum-booted deckhand named Jonnie Western,
hosing down the deck, a rolled cigarette
hanging out the side of his mouth, rippling
muscles visible through his singlet, the
archetype of a weathered fisho. It was Jonnie
who had been at sea during the storm that
rocked me weeks ago, sick in my tent at Cactus
Beach. He looks me in the eye and excitedly
tells me of his experience, obviously still
fresh in his mind. ‘We had every anchor out,
two grapnels and the main anchor and we
were still dragged towards the cliffs in the
bay, the ocean had been blown flat, water was
coming in the wheelhouse, the captain leaned

on the horn, a thirty foot wave was coming
our way. The trawler reeled on its side, the
glass windows were in the water, I got picked
up from the bow of the boat and thrown
through the air, I thought I was going in the
water.’ Jonnie’s leaning on one of the leather
jacket traps, his face lights up beneath his
beanie as he continues, seagulls cawing in
the background. ‘I ended up smashing my
head on the rail, two black eyes and blood
going everywhere, my clothes full of water.
Hurricane force winds, the deck swamped,
you switch on when it gets that rough,
winds gusting to ninety knots. We sat in the
anchorage for nine days, sheltered in the bay
of St. Francis Island, stuck with two others
in a wheelhouse the size of a small kitchen,
we call it getting-to-know-each-other time, no
pay, no fishing. Someone on watch constantly,
every four hours pulling up the anchors and
steaming back to drop anchor once more. The
boat being dragged unrelentingly towards the
cliffs.’ Jonnie tells me he got lucky this trip,
the blokes he was caged up with were good
company; it could otherwise have easily felt
like a maritime prison, complete with diesel
fumes and stinging salt spray. Deckhands
often work from boat to boat, fishing whatever
species is in season. The boat Jonnie was
on during the storm was a rock lobster boat,
pulling a hundred pots out of the water and
resetting baits. His captain had said it was
the worst storm he’d faced in thirty-five
years at sea. It was a feature of this winter
that we would experience record breaking
storms. This was not the first, nor the last.
Sea You Me

be a breeze from here … or at least a squall.
The headwind continues, as does the rain, water
coming from above and kicked up from my tyres
below. It’s a long slow ride, each hill an insult.
I’m going to have to stay in Lincoln for a day
or two at least while the spokes are fixed. The
lack of momentum is frustrating — the worst
day in the saddle yet. Inch by inch I make my
way to Lincoln as a car pulls over in the distance,
a mud-covered 4WD — no surprises there.
Big Swamp.
Out of the window leans a bloke named Joel,
34°38’
C It’s a damp morning and the wind is incoming. ‘G’day mate, got a place to stay in Lincoln?’
It’s not too far to Port Lincoln and I want It’s a Sunday afternoon and Port Lincoln
to get down to the National Park as soon as welcomes me. There’s Joel at his gate with
possible. I’m rolling down an oily road with his partner Emma, cold beer in hand. They
the downhill out of Coffin Bay when I hear and clear out their son’s bed for me, walls covered
feel a clunk, the bike loosens and my rear in posters of motorbikes and skate-board
wheel rubs hard on the frame. It’s a couple of stickers. Emma cooks us up a vego Pad Thai
spokes that have given up — not totally catastrophic,
but frustrating. It’s only a day’s ride just met Joel and his son, camped a night
and offers me a seat at their table. I’d only
to Lincoln; there’s a bike store there and my together and now here he was inviting me
best bet for getting back on the road quickly. into his home and introducing me to his
It’s going to be a long day in the saddle. young family. Joel’s another Port Lincoln
The rain starts to come down to hammer that fisho, working the tuna boats and pens for
home, my rear wheel wobbling with every a crust. He regales me with stories of the
pedal. The wind picks up to frustrate me high sea, chasing tuna and wrangling them
further. My morning began with a call from into nets. He is also another west coast photographer,
having access to a unique work
Myf, ‘everything is OK but …’. You know bad
news is coming next. My close friend Nick had environment, the walls of his house covered
been hit by a car on his bike; it was serious, in beautiful photographs of the remarkable
135°42’02.
but he was going to be OK. He had broken his experiences his job offers. He tells me about
sternum and ripped a gash in his leg after the insanity that is tuna harvest season:
ending up underneath a car coming towards jumping in the pens all day, everyday, until
him. He’d be hospitalised for a few days and the job is done; wrangling sixty kilo fish out
bed-ridden for a few more after that. It was of the pens, arms wrapped around the fighting
another timely reminder of the inherent fish kicking hard for its life. Joel grabs hold
dangers of cycling but, more telling, emphasised
how helpless I felt while on the road. bruised from the fleeing meat. I stay with
of fish after fish, thousands of them, his body
Joel and Emmafor a couple of nights waiting
H
APTER
E
LE
V
EN
Perhaps a few further kilometres up the road,
I hear another crunch of metal. It’s my trailer
this time, lying behind me on the road as I hit
the brakes hard. I t’s clear what has happened.
The pressure going through the rear hub from
the crumpled forks of the trailer has been
exacerbated by the broken spokes. The rear
skewer is once again bent, badly too, but not
yet snapped. I’m now sitting on the guardrail
on the highway, wind and water stinging my
face and hammering my raincoat. Cars drive by
and drench me further. There’s only a little
shoulder allowance for me to work. Tools out,
I have to fix the creased mess of the trailer’s
forks. I’m going to take my time, make sure
every nut and bolt is tight and straight, the
chain lubed, the tyres filled, every lock locked
and clip clipped. I’ve only got to limp another
forty kilometres to Port Lincoln. It should
Me
for my custom spokes to arrive.
I’d made a few trips west in my time, usually
in a van with a couple of mates, and rarely
do you get to interact with those who call the
coast home. We drive in under the cover of
darkness, roll out the swags and wake to the
surf. We’re short on time, usually only on the
road for a swell. Interactions with any towns
we pass through are limited to the bakery
during the day and the pub at night. Perhaps
once a year, we manage a longer trip, a week
or ten days; that’s when you really manage to
slide into the groove of the landscape. By day
three you’re feeling good. You realise you’re
walking taller; there’s a weight lifted off your
shoulders. You’ve spent some time in the brine,
got a few waves and you’re tired, but it’s
a good tired, a tired you feel you’ve earned.

Land
It’s these moments which make a trip special.
This was one of the motivations behind
LAND SEA YOU ME. I wanted to stop in these
communities, to slow right down, to hear
the stories of the land and sea. I couldn’t do
this in a car, and I couldn’t do it with mates.
This was going to have to be me and the road.
It meant I could gain access to secret homes:
I was invited for meals, given patches of
grass in backyards, offered beds and boards.
While I waited in Port Lincoln for the parts
19.3”S
to arrive I heard about a man who dives for
abalone in a chain mail suit. The job has
always fascinated me, particularly in the
deep, dark, cold waters of southern Australia.
The thought of someone suiting up in a fifteen
kilogram chain mail suit on a heaving boat
deck only added to my curiosity. The utter
ridiculousness of that visual image meant
I had to meet him.
‘It’s fucking heaps comfortable, great for
weight distribution and all that too,’ says
Darryl Carrison, abalone diver. He’s decked
himself out for me in his kit: ten millimetre
wetsuit, hood, booties, mask, hooker, chain
mail suit and weight belt. We’re in his boat
shed, just off the main strip at Port Lincoln
and the weather has meant he’s not heading
out diving on the day we meet. He stands in
8”E
front of the boat that he and his niece Amanda
Bichard work, looking like someone caught
between a medieval battle field and bizarre
horror movie villain, complete with rusty
knife. Darryl has been diving to the depths
of our oceans for over eighteen years, having
started out on decks shelling the abalones
as they are delivered to the surface before
graduating to the sea bottom. I ask him about
the fear of sharks and the reason for the chain
mail suit. His answer is simple, ‘Fucking hate
the cunts.’ There aren’t too many people out
here who make a life or a living in the ocean
who don’t have one or two white pointer
stories. Darryl is no different. ‘It was pretty
freaky this one time. I was lying on my back
and it was right above me, so close to me,
every breath I took I would float up towards
it, so I was trying to hold on to the reef. It
came straight at me and then swam around
me, and again it swam around me, getting
closer each time. Fuck me, I could see its
big black eyes. It stopped close to me on the
reef. I knew it was there but it was so well
camouflaged, it melted into the reef. I was
now up on my knees, in fifty feet of water and
I remembered what my cousin had once said
to me. His boat had sunk years earlier in the
Neptunes. He had to dive down to get some
gear out of it and a big pointer swam past
him. He wrapped himself in the hose and the
pointer fucked off. So I did the same, pulled
down the hose and wrapped myself in it and
as soon as I did the shark had one quick
go at my bag and then fucked off too.’
The hose Darryl is talking about is the air
hose ab-divers use instead of scuba tanks.
Communication between the diver and boat
is limited to tugs on the hose. Using a hose
allows the divers to breathe surface air and
spend much more time at depth, not limited
by how much air they can carry. Darryl has
been known to spend nine hours underwater in
one dive alone, without surfacing, sending up
bag after bag of abalone to be shelled by Amanda
waiting on deck. Each bag would hold a couple
of thousand dollars worth of blacklip abalone.
His words are rapid fire; he’s animated and
excited to be chatting to me about a job he
obviously loves so much: it’s the challenge,
our pristine waters. And he doesn’t mind
the occasional ab himself. We talk about the
recent weather, about not being able to launch
their boat the day before, the boat ramp
having been washed away in the ‘Storm of the
Century’. ‘A mate was out yesterday and the
water was that murky he had to use his depth
gauge to work out which way was up.’ Darryl
tells me there is a strong bond amongst the
ab-diving community, forged by doing an
inherently dangerous job in trying conditions.
He reckons there isn’t an ab industry around
the world that can compete with this one,
so when tragedy strikes, it hits the whole
community hard. February 2011, saw the
death of Darryl’s mate and fellow diver Peter
Clarkson. Peter was surfacing from a dive at
Perforated Island, only ten kilometres from
Coffin Bay, when he was fatally attacked by
what was reported as two great white sharks.
He was well regarded in both the ab community
and a respected author and expert on the
cowrie shell, spending his time between
diving for abs and cowries in the waters of
southern Australia. Darryl had been chatting
with him only three days earlier, recounting
to Peter his own recent shark encounter.
‘Peter was sitting there on my boat, in his
blue wetsuit listening to my story. He reckons
that’s a good idea with the hose and finishes
by saying, ‘Ohhhh I hate the buggers.’ Darryl
had seen Peter twice the day he was attacked,
diving very close to each other. ‘We said
goodbye after the couple of dives as he
headed off to Perforated. That was it.’
Sea
You

C
H
APTER
T
W
E
L
VE
34°
08’
Carrow Wells.
The best surf photographs in the world aren’t
in magazines.
34.
They’re not in galleries, they’re
not in books. They’re on the walls of surfers’
garages up and down the coast, horizons
wonky, framing off, faded and marked with
pin holes. I’m invited into these sanctuaries
overflowing with boards and boogs, yellowed,
broken, fresh and new, garages smelling of
fuel from broken-down lawnmowers, equally
broken
7”S
table-tennis tables in the corner,
fading posters from out-of-print magazines
on the wall and next to them, the shots of
venerated sessions from years or decades
past. There’s the owner of any given garage
sitting in some of the most perfect pits
imaginable. There they are on another slab,
this time a right, equally perfect, next to
an enlargement of their brother sitting in an
even more perfect pit. These secret galleries
won’t ever make social media, they won’t ever
be framed; their sole purpose is a memory,
a souvenir. These are sacred sessions with
mates, swells that snuck under the radar,
locals only. Shot on point-and-shoots or
grandpa’s SLR no one else wanted, these
photographs are something special for those
who were there and a privilege to see as an
outsider. More recently, these sessions
have been migrating into the digital sphere,
perhaps a little slower than the rest of
society, but the attitude remains the same.
Shaky footage recorded from the back of a
boat or ski, secret waves and underground
sessions. Never published, just shared among
mates, and envied by anyone who sees, usually
through cracked phone screens passed around
to others in the car.
As I make my way up the east coast of the Eyre
Peninsula, I look back on the invitations to
these secret garages, and their insights into
communities you’d only normally see passing
through under the cloak of night, or buying
an iced coffee in the morning post-surf. These
are small, close communities, grappling with
the world rotating seemingly ever faster
around them.
Land
Some open their arms to you; others are a
little more cautious, built on generations
of families working the land, toiling away in
an unforgiving landscape. Across the Nullarbor
these towns would be days apart, each with
a distinct flavour and ambiance. As I made
my way further east, the towns began to
be closer together, often farming the same
crops or fishing the same fish.
For the first months, the towns are too far
apart to guarantee I’ll reach fresh water,
and it’s a battle to carry enough for drinking,
cooking and cleaning. It’s quickly apparent
that I’ll have to clean my dishes in the ocean,
cook with bore water, and leave any water
I can carry to quench an unquenchable thirst.
Every litre of water is of course an extra
kilogram to carry. A two-day ride between
fresh water usually means ten litres, and
even then, more often than not, it isn’t
enough. I find myself crossing my fingers for
a couple of grey nomads to pass or a friendly
g’day at a campsite. I catch and bottle rain
on the tent, a bonus that many times allows
me to spend more time in an area than I’ve
planned. The rain usually comes at night.
I’m in my sleeping bag, and I hear the drops
splatter on the tent, one of the most relaxing
sounds imaginable. Combine that with a warm
meal, 100 kms in the saddle and no artificial
light, and I’m asleep an hour after sunset
most nights. This was true for Moonlight Bay,
my first stop north of Port Lincoln, although
there was no moonlight over the bay the night
I sleep there, just the drone of dirt bikes in
the dunes once again. My legs are heavy riding
out of Port Lincoln — another four days off
means my body aches once again. I roll on nonetheless,
the east coast markedly different
from the west, the landscape reminding
me of the east coast of Yorke Peninsula. The
wind continues. Being so close to the daily
fluctuations in wind, is a relavation. I feel
its force from my feet to my face, a whole
body immersion in the environment. It can
be soothing; it can be terrifying.
Bob Dylan has just won the Nobel Prize for
Literature and Shelter from the Storm plays
on my radio as I try to imagine a place that
is safe and warm. I’ve been making audio
recordings all along my journey, but I can’t
help but feel that digitised 1s and 0s cannot
convey the true screaming of a wind or
the grumble and rumble of thunder. We
will have to wait and hear. I spend a night
at a small campsite named Carrow Wells,
south of Arno Bay.
Me

Sea
Myf gives me a call and asks if she can join
me for a couple of days now that I’m getting
closer to the Yorke Peninsula and Adelaide.
I’m really starting to feel the exhaustion of
being alone and the effects of being away from
my young family. I’d love to have my girls
with me for a couple of days. Absolutely. They
arrive the next day, when I’ve made Arno Bay.
I watch as our car comes carefully across the
dune, beginning to glow in the afternoon sun,
Myf waving, Juno looking for me from the back
seat. It seems so long since I last saw them,
and Myf is excited to see me. Juno has written
a card for me: ‘Dear dad, I think you’re the
best daddy in the world, but I’m willing to
share you with my new baby brother or
sister.’ We … are … pregnant!
We are ecstatic to be pregnant again, though
it’s definitely a surprise, albeit an awesome
one. I have an overwhelming feeling that
it’s time to pull over and finish the journey.
I need to be there for Myf. I’ve come this
far, ridden a couple of thousand kilometres,
made a few thousand photographs. The journey
has been a success. I’ve met some enthralling
people, heard some tales, short and tall, and
seen some places and lands I didn’t know
existed. If I pull up stumps, no one will hold
it against me.
136°
20’
02.
1”E
The girls continue with me for a few more
days, in the car ahead or behind, making camp
each night. We talk about our options. Not only
would Myf now be home alone with a toddler,
but she will also be dealing with a pregnancy,
running a household and the business. I’ll be
even more alone now, many nights still out
of phone contact and useless in an emergency.
It was only mid-November and I still had
another month and a half of hard work left
on the road ahead of me.
Myf and Juno join me until I reach the top
of the Eyre Peninsula, where, for me, there’s
no alternative but to head inland and skirt
the top of the Spencer Gulf. We spend a night
camped at Mambray Creek, the furthest inland
camp I’ll make on the journey, but still not
far from water — the creek is running. I had
spent many weeks camped here as a young
child, and the smells and sounds of the bird
life bring back memories of summers long
gone. Now, I’m watching Juno play in the same
creeks I did when I was her age. We decide
that I will continue on. It’s a decision we
came to together, Myf pushing me on, adamant
I continue the project. She will go through
the first trimester without her partner.
You

All I have to do is make Moonta to get on
the trail, an easy eighty-five kilometres
away. I ride across the footy field as I leave,
admiring the juxtaposition of a hundredyear-
old sports ground overlooked by
a modern windfarm.
C
H
APTER
T
H
I
R
TEEN
You
Me
My bike bucks hard as I hit the road, my
foot slips off the pedal and I hit the ground.
Again, I hear a metallic clang. My bike chain
Clements Gap. is hanging forlornly, my rear derailleur likewise.
The pressure brought by a bent rear
The weather is getting warmer, and you
skewer had reached critical mass, this time
can feel it most in the evenings. My tent snapping the rear derailleur hanger. I sit on
is now peppered with mozzies nightly and the side of the dirt road and once again scroll
I’m starting to see a few snakes in the long through my options. I’d said goodbye to the
grass. I camp one last night with Myf and girls, I’m now alone, I need a bike part, and
Juno before they head home. We choose
I need to get to Moonta. Out come the tools,
to camp in Clements Gap, one of the more the most crucial being zip-ties. My hands are
unusual campsites I’ve ever stayed in — an grease-stained black by the end, but I have
old school ground now open to camping. It has managed to jury-rig the derailleur in place.
a palpable ghost town vibe, complete with a I can now ride, even if it is with only one
recently mowed football oval, white painted gear, until I can get my hands on the new
timber footy posts and an ornate gate proudly part. Weeks later and I’m still dealing with
declaring their premierships in 1920, 1921 and the results of the Point Brown trailer crash.
1922. The night is warm, I’m down to shorts I’m sweating, swearing and sucking in air
and a t-shirt on the bike now, and drinking as I drag myself along the peninsula on my
more water than ever. The three of us fit temporary single-speed. Still, I’m moving
snuggly
33°29’15.
in my tent, trying to find our own in the right direction, even if a head wind
space in the humidity. I can feel another adds to the humiliation, slight hills another
storm coming. I’m beginning to unconsciously annoyance. My bike mechanic Jake from
pick up the signs. This one hits late at night Treadly Bike Shop finds me the spare part
and only lasts a couple of hours, but it’s the same day, a friend swings past the shop
intense, winds tearing through the landscape, in Adelaide and drives it over to me on the
swirling ferociously, lightning and thunder peninsula. I break down on the Friday, ride
accompanying the cell. The storm pales in eighty-five kilometres, and have the new part
comparison to the storms of three weeks in my hands and back on my bike the next day.
earlier, but it’s another tough night in the
tent nonetheless. It’s bittersweet
138°04’
to have I was straight onto the Walk The Yorke Trail,
my girls next to me. It’s great for them to relieved to be smoothly rolling forwards once
experience the weather that’s battered me, again. For the next two weeks I ride on the
but I’m worried for Juno enduring what could trail’s gravel, mud, bitumen and sand, riding
be a terrifying night for her. I needn’t have through fields of golden wheat, radio tuned
worried. She sleeps on, and in the morning, to Radio National, helmet off, enjoying the
damp ground is the only sign of the previous remote landscape. I don’t see anyone for a
night’s chaos.
day or two: no cars, just me, the snakes, roos
and wombats. The trail is marked on my map
I’m close to the beginning of the Walk The
Yorke Trail, a 500km coastal trail set up to
follow the entire coastline, with shelters
every twenty kilometres or so. It’s a brilliant
concept, only recently opened to bikes. I’ll
be one of the first few to do the whole trail.
It couldn’t have come at a better time. I’m
exhausted and dealing now with underlying
guilt of being away from my girls. I no longer
have to mark out my trail, my water worries
are over, and towns are getting closer
together which means carrying less supplies.
and by markers every couple of kilometres.
It allowed me to put my head down and push
on knowing I’ll come across a couple of rain
water tanks every day on the route. I ride
down the west coast, singing loudly, thinking
the more noise I make the fewer snakes I’ll
see. It doesn’t work. Riding through long
grass in the heat I hold my legs aloft trying
to avoid any belly sliders beneath me yelling
as I go. I no doubt look hilarious, but I’d
seen no one all day so there’s no fear of
embarrassing myself.

Land
I’m flying through the Point Pearce Aboriginal
Lands when I come across a couple of sets of
bike tyre tracks. It’s one of those days in the
saddle where occasionally everything comes
together and I really feel good: little wind,
comfortable temperature, good breakfast
and an unbroken sleep. The only problem I
face is that the flies are gradually becoming
unbearable. I’m racing along when I hit deep
mud abruptly and hit the deck hard for the
first time, sliding metres in the mud, hands
and legs splayed. It would be comical for
anyone watching, but I’m alone, laughing aloud
to myself, my bike slowly sinking. I brush
myself off and keep riding when thirty metres
up the trail the tyre tracks I’d been following
turned into an unmistakable splatter pattern
of another cyclist hitting the deck followed
by footprints as they too dusted themselves
off. When I drop into Hardwicke Bay to grab
myself a fly net, the woman behind the counter
mentions a couple of cyclists ahead of me and
says they shouldn’t be far off. As I thank her
and pay my $7.50 — an incredibly small price
to pay for my sanity — she wishes me well
with a ‘no probs, cob.’
As predicted, I meet these cyclists the next
6”S
evening in Point Turton where we have a
meal and a laugh together in the Point Turton
Tavern. Paul and Kieren have taken ten days
off to ride the Walk The Yorke Trail, stopping
each night in a motel or pub, the smart way to
do cycle touring: no tents, no hauling all your
equipment, no cooking, no cleaning. They are
a composed sight sitting opposite me, while
I have specks of dry mud still in my hair,
my face encrusted with sweat, suncream and
grit. But it doesn’t matter, they’re welcome
company and a chance to chat about the
challenges and joys of cycling the Yorke
Peninsula. They have been friends for decades
and take delight in challenging themselves,
having ridden a few tours such as this. We
finish our meals and retreat to bed, exhaustion
evident across all three of our faces. They
from frontier territory. Rusty fishing hooks
and rotting seaweed, paperback adventure
novels and a rumbling fridge — these were
my memories of The Shack. Riding through
the sprawling town is a far cry from all that.
The only similarities between my childhood
and today is the smell of the general store.
The olfactory assault of bait and fishing is
the same as it was twenty-five years ago.
I try to find the old shack as I ride south
towards Corny Point, but it has long since
been demolished. A mansion has no doubt
taken its place on the foreshore.
The roads remain the same, gravelly and
yellow, snaking their way through the fields
of wheat. Making good pace along these roads
in the afternoon light, I see a stick in the
distance. I’m only a kilometre from the
night’s camp at Gleeson’s Landing when I get
to the stick and realise it’s another snake.
I veer violently to avoid it and almost go
down hard on the gravel. I slow myself down
and realise I’m breathing hard. I’d been
in a groove all afternoon knowing that I’m
close to the bottom of the Peninsula and over
another milestone, my fitness now peaking,
the bike now humming between my legs.
36.3”E
have a bed to look forward to … I crawl back
into my tent. As I’m leaving in the morning,
I’m stopped by a couple who ask me if they
saw me on the Nullarbor months before.
That’d be me.
Sea
Point Turton was home to my grandparents’
shack when I was growing up. A proper
shack too: hand-built, drafty, outdoor dunny,
a single-room shanty with no TVs in sight,
no air conditioning, no heating. It was
a testament to simpler times, when the
Yorke Peninsula wasn’t too far removed

C
H
APTER
F
O
U
R
TEEN
Me
Inneston.
Riding out of Gleeson’s Landing, I see the
snake from the previous evening. It hadn’t
moved — I had almost crashed hard avoiding
a dead brown snake! I follow the dirt road
until I meet the bitumen. The road crosses
the peninsula, farmland to the left, the coast
to the right. This stretch is well trodden by
me, and almost every Adelaide surfer with
a car. I’ve made the journey to Yorkes and
back too many times to count, cars full of
mates, or solo, for weeks at a time or day
trips. It’s a paradise only hours from home,
so close that you can be in the water for a
quick session after work on a Friday. The ride
across the bottom of the foot takes you past
a concentrated version of South Australian
landscapes: dunes and cliffs, granite headlands,
beaches and scrub, forests and lakes.
The beating heart of the Southern Yorke
Peninsula is Innes National Park and my
destination for the day. National Parks have
invited me to shack up in Inneston, a small
town established and abandoned within a
century, its fortunes tied to the mining of
gypsum. Now restored in parts, its secluded
location and tangible history make for a
fascinating stay. I bump into Jye and Franny
once again as I roll into Marion Bay on the
edge of the park. It’s been months since I’d
seen them last, searching for waves on the
far west coast. They will be surfing West Cape
35°16’
the following day and invite me to join them.
The weather and wave elements had aligned
once again. It’s a perfect twenty-eight degrees
with little wind as I make my way into the
park, over the famed Wow Hill, the unofficial
entry to Innes, past Chinaman’s Hat Island to
my left and along one of the greatest riding
roads in the state, the bitumen following
24.7”S
the winding contours of the coast, not a
car in sight. It was good to be back.
I settle into the Old Post Office, next door
to the ruined bakery. I’ve stayed here with
my girls many times before, watching from
the kitchen as emus and kangaroos graze.
The warmth of a fire place, and a bed to myself
are a luxurious change from the hard, cold
floor and wind of the tent, and it’s a perfect
base from which to explore the park by bike.
The cost of camping in new places and meeting
new faces everyday is exhaustion, physical
and emotional, and it’s a welcome change to
have a few days to myself to catch my breath,
recharge all my batteries and get wet. I’m
asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow,
oblivious to a Radiolab podcast on colour,
looping on and on.
I’m awoken by yells of ‘Che!’ coming across
the scrub. It’s dark outside as I scramble
to find my phone to work out what’s going
on. It’s 5.30AM, Jye and Franny are lost in
Inneston and trying to find where I’m holed
up. We’d briefly talked about meeting in the
morning but I’d hoped for a far more civilised
hour. Yet here I am, making the long walk
across the cold sand of West Cape, the crisp
morning light playing on the lines unloading
across the sand bars, the sea-mist hanging in
the air. The swell is solid, the lineup empty,
the boys will be tow-surfing today, and so will
many surfers from Adelaide who have made
the journey overnight. The sun rises to reveal
a perfect day, blue skies and offshore winds,
dolphins playing in the clean swell. The beach
slowly fills with surfers and jet skis, boards
littering the sand. I’s an unofficial meeting of
two of South Australia’s premier boardriders
clubs — Seaford and South Coast Boardriders
both making their way to West Cape for the
thumping swell. I bumped into people I had
met over on the west coast months earlier.
Since then I’ve travelled thousands of
kilometres, lost ten kilograms, and seen
over half our coastline.
I nap on the beach in the sun, and after lunch
back at the Post Office nap again, unable to
keep my eyes open. When I wake in the early
morning the next day, I’ve slept for over
fourteen hours, the last few weeks on the road
obviously catching up with me. I have plans
to shoot Ethel wreck at magic hour, hoping
for a lively sea and sky. The extra confidence
of having four sturdy walls and a roof to come
back to means I’m able to shoot longer and
in wilder weather than I otherwise could
comfortably. The bike is the perfect vehicle
to fly around the park with, lightly loaded
only with water and camera gear, and I can
go where no car can … and quickly. I have
numerous evenings of October light and
weather to shoot in my favourite national
park and a warm shower to go home to.

Land
Sea
The evening unfolds in front of me from the
cliff top overlooking the wreck of the Ethel.
The sands are yellow and coarse, common to
high-surf beaches facing dogged winds and
swells. The ship’s bare bones are scattered
across the beach, uncovered by the recent
barrage of storms, her skeleton battered with
every tide for over a century. Her hulking
iron frame is still a feature of the coastline
and a favourite location for photographers,
but tonight I’m the only person on the beach.
Looking across towards West Cape Beach,
I see that it, too, is empty. The blue skies
and offshore winds are long gone and with
it the people, jet skis and surfboards of a
few days ago. The wind howls and the clouds
race at a good clip, the swell, marching
from the south, flattened and jumbled by
the sou’wester. Plumes of whitewater shoot
skyward as the swell meets the shallows,
golden light painted across the grasses and
Pigface that cling to the limestone cliffs —
dream photographic conditions. The sun’s
fingers tear through the clouds, lighting up
patches of deep, black ocean on the horizon.
It was a storm such as this that had wrecked
the Ethel over a century earlier. Sailing from
South Africa, bound for Port Adelaide, she
struck a reef and her rudder was damaged.
A young crew member volunteered to swim
ashore, but he was swallowed by the waves
and drowned. Drifting at the mercy of the wind
and waves, the Ethel hit the beach broadside.
The beach, now named after the wreck, is
also the last resting place of the SS Ferret,
a steamship wrecked in 1920 carrying a
boisterous cargo of beer, wine and whisky,
her boiler still prominent on the 450 metrelong
shoreline. The two wrecks cast a literal
shadow on the beach at sunset, a monument
to a romantic past of seafaring, of wood, iron,
charts and barometers. The Yorke Peninsula
coastline is littered with wrecks both historic
and modern, many finding their final resting
place off the coast of Innes National Park.
The next day dawns beautiful, a blue sky
once again and left-over light onshore winds,
perfect for my plan to do a lap of Innes in
the saddle. I swing past Marion Bay for a
lunch of vegetarian pie and coffee then make
my way back across the bottom of the boot
29.3”E
to Gym Beach, a secluded part of the park
where few people venture, the flies and
snakes extraordinary at this time of year.
I’ve seen five king-brown snakes before
breakfast and I’m now wearing my mesh
mozzie net full-time over my helmet.
The ride, however, is beautiful.
Once again, I feel I have the park to myself,
the single track from Gym Beach to Brown’s
Beach skirting the foreshore dune fields,
passing through sheoak and melaleuca forests
and taking in some of the more untouched
parts of the park. The silence is broken only
by birdsong and me as I ride across the sand
and dirt of the trail, the overhanging canopy
a welcome respite from the sun. My lap of the
park is one of the greatest days of the whole
journey in the saddle: twisting sheltered
roads, unique and diverse scenery, and no
traffic. It’s a road I’ve trodden innumerable
times before in the search of surf, but to do
it on a bike is an epiphany. I’m untouchable
in the saddle, the machine between my legs
whispering as I put down pedal after pedal,
leaning into the sweeping corners, sweating
my way up the soft climbs and hooting loudly
as I fly down the descents. This is what
long-haul cycling is all about, the magic
days in the saddle amongst the hard yakka,
pain and headwinds.
I finish my day standing next to the Cape
Spencer lighthouse, a brutalist monolith atop
a sheer headland, Althorpe Island to the south
and remote bays to the west. Once again, the
wind screams, and the sky lights up, the soft,
spring, afternoon glow caressing the landscape
and the whitecaps of the ocean. Offshore
reefs warble under the weight of the swells as
they pass, churning the ocean below. Granite
boulders at the base of the headland eighty
metres below throw up walls of whitewater,
back lit by the sinking sun, the nimbostratus
clouds above glowing red. I scramble along
the cliff face photographing the symphony
of light and colour before me, the ocean’s
surface resembling golden tin-foil as the
sun sinks further and the temperature
drops. The ride back to the Post Office is
a satisfying roll: I had a hot meal, a hot
shower and a warm bed to look forward to.
You136°53’

C
H
APTER
F
IF
T
EEN
35°14’19.
4”S
Marion Bay.
The ride out in the morning is a wet one.
Another storm overnight has brought strong
sou’westers again and finally a tailwind for
me as I climb out of the park. I want to meet
a local artist who runs a gallery in Marion
Bay, exhibiting artists from around South
Australia whose work is heavily influenced
by the ocean. If you’ve ever entered a servo
or cafe anywhere on the Yorke Peninsula
you would have seen Jason Swales’s work,
the super-saturated, textured paintings of
waves and landscapes from along our coastline
and lineups from around the world: flaring
barrels, picture-perfect beaches under the
searing sun. These works hang proudly in
beach houses across the country. He’s made
a life out of art, of capturing waves and
landscapes in dense colour and cartoonish
perfection, giving us an insight into the
world he sees when the school kids and
weekenders have left the peninsula and
the locals have it to themselves once again.
Then, it’s the cold winter mornings when
Jason paddles out at sunrise, no one else
even suiting up, the thunderous swells
stacked to the islands on the horizon.
I meet Jason in his gallery and he offers
me a welcome coffee on this cold morning.
There’s no surf today, a rarity on the bottom
end of the peninsula, so he’s happy to chat
surf and his painting practice. He and family
moved to Yorkes sixteen years ago, chasing
waves and a seachange, living a carefree
coastal fantasy, Innes National Park as
their backyard.
The gallery is filled with art inspired by
the natural environment: oils on canvas,
sculptures, wall hangings and of course,
the ubiquitous surfboards. Jason has been
painting his whole life, picking up the skill
from his father. He talks of living in Mexico
when he was young and solo, surviving by
selling hand-painted cards to tourists at five
bucks a pop. One sale a day was all he needed
to keep his lifestyle well-oiled.
Land
He’d paint dreamy Peurto Escondido lineups
after surfing them all morning, literally
immersed in his subject, his inspiration
the dance of light across the sea surface. He
continues this practice today, albeit on larger
canvasses and with much more consideration.
His subject remains the same, but now he
tends to focus on South Australian scenes.
Hanging in his gallery are Yorke Peninsula
landscapes and some from further afield, so
recognisable that he was often asked, early in
his career, not to exhibit his work for fear of
exposing secret surf breaks. I mention that I
came across one of his works hanging on a wall
in a house of a surfer on the Eyre Peninsula,
and he tells me that this particular painting
was kept under wraps for years. Thankfully,
he now paints without censorship.
Leaving Marion Bay I’m heading along the
coast towards my campsite at Foul Bay. I
thread the dirt roads, reinvigorated. A few
days of familiar territory — the winds, waters
and friendly faces — has made a world of
difference. Once again I follow the Walk The
Yorke Trail, riding on the tracks and back
roads of the area, occasionally passing
through private land, cricket now on the
radio, the footy season having finished. Foul
Bay is a short ride out of Marion Bay, and I
make camp in the early afternoon with plenty
of time to put on my wetsuit and make some
seascapes in the afternoon light. The days
are starting to get longer, a sign that warmer
weather is on its way, finally. The challenge of
riding all day to make camp with enough time
spare in the evening to scale cliffs and swim
in oceans has been wearing thin. After eight
hours’ pedalling through wind, sand, rain,
hills and mud, setting up my tent was always
welcome. After knocking off meal after meal
to try and satiate a hunger, I’d wearily crawl
out of the tent to find my location to make
art. Exhausted and in pain, inspiration was
often hard to come by. The frequent squalls
and flat light had added to the frustrations.
I carried my gear to the land’s end, found
my foreground interest or subject and waited
for the lighting event. I did this each night
on the road when I could. Soaking wet, or
wind burnt, you’d find me with camera in
hand scouring the land and seascape.
This afternoon I’m at sea level, the golden
rays dancing on the ocean, a light wind
brushing on texture, an otherwise flat ocean
refracting light in erratic arrays at the macro
level. The session lasts an hour, as I bob about
in the meditative space of the evening glow.
Me

I hang my wetsuit on a nearby fence and crawl
into my tent, now covered in the snails that
blight the peninsula. Roos and wallabies join
me at my campsite as I fall asleep with the
setting sun.
The beaches have already begun to take on
a different shape from those on the bottom
of the peninsula. The seas become a little
friendlier, the roaring southern ocean making
way for the shallower warmer waters of the
Gulf St Vincent. The fifteen kilometre sweep
of Foul Bay is home to broad sandflats and
seagrass meadows and recent storms have
whipped up tonnes of seaweed and dumped
it along the beach. The coast road on the east
of the Yorke Peninsula is characterised by
the meeting of wheat and barley fields and
the ocean. Ports dot the east coast, hulking
grain sheds and industrial jetties a feature
of many of the small towns. Each day I pass
through many quiet fishing and holiday towns
hidden away along the coast and enjoy the
calmer waters and shelter from the elements.
Below the seemingly calm surface, however,
lie the wrecks — casualties of a wild wind or
submerged reef. I pause to read the frequent
monuments on the coast road, markers of
disasters through almost two centuries of
shipping. As I look out to sea on a blue-bird
day, light winds blowing and small swell
running, it’s hard to imagine the brutality
of a shipwreck. My experiences of this coastline
are so far removed from the violence of
a wooden hull cracking onto a reef, the horror
of firm timber beneath your feet giving way
to a turbulent ocean as you scramble to save
yourself or loved ones.
Australia’s largest mass grave is just a few
kilometres up the road in the Edithburgh
Cemetery. The 1909 wreck of the turret
steamer Clan Ranald is one of the coast’s,
and Australia’s, worst maritime disasters
and remains in the forefront of the psyche
of the people of the peninsula. She went
down in twenty metres of water, taking forty
lives with her in the black of night, many
pulled under as she slipped below the surface.
Survivors were pulled from the water as the
communities of Edithburgh and Troubridge
responded to the distress rockets fired by the
ship. They lit fires on the beach to guide the
survivors to safety, many having made land
only to find themselves floundering at the
base of steep cliffs and jagged rocks, unable
to climb to safety. Twenty-four crew survived
the wreck, many clinging to wreckage. Ragged
and terrified, they were welcomed by the
You
Yorke Peninsula communities. The bodies
of the dead were buried at the Edithburgh
Cemetery after being washed and prepared
by the small town.
‘The white men were buried in Edithburgh
Cemetery, and the lascars were buried in a
grave as big as a large room, in the corner
of the cemetery. The coffins, which were
made of any wood that could be procured,
were piled up, and kept open for several
days, as they found more bodies later.
Mounted Constable Schanks, of Edithburgh,
received a wire from the shipping agents in
Adelaide that all bodies, white and black, had
to be buried with the same respect, writes
Mr. Huxley. The white men, five in number,
were buried not a great way from the front
entrance of the cemetery, and all the colored
men, numbering about 38, were buried two
deep in a long trench in the north-west corner
of the cemetery. There was not sufficient
timber in Edithburgh to make the coffins,
and Mr.W. J. Hart was having a new house
built in Edithburgh. Every floor board was
taken and used for making the coffins.’ The
Mail, Adelaide. Saturday October 17, 1936.
136°58’
50.1”E
The White Australia policy was in effect in
1909, and despite being looked after by the
local communities, the twenty surviving
lascars (South and South-East Asian crew)
were treated as illegal immigrants and
deported immediately. Looking down now
on the beaches and cliffs that the survivors
would have encountered in the darkness gives
a new respect to the horror that they faced
in the freezing waters that night. Here I was,
107 years later cycling along the same cliffs
that had claimed so many lives, taking in
the artistry and tranquillity of the area.
Further along the road I pass a memorial to
a more recent tragedy, the taking of a young
life by one of our ocean’s feared predators.
Sam Kellet was a school teacher in the prime
of his life, tragically taken while spearfishing
with friends off Goldsmith Beach, a
beach I’ve surfed many times. Kellet and his
friends had originally planned to dive that
day at Chinaman Hat Island in Innes National
Park but a Catastrophic Fire Day had been
declared and the park was closed to visitors.
It was the first fatal shark attack in South
Australian waters for three years, and the
first fatal attack on the Yorke Peninsula for
close to fifteen. The next serious shark attack
in South Australia was in April the following
year, 2015, and back on the Eyre Peninsula.
Sea

C
H
APTER
S
IX
T
EEN
Me
Fishery Bay.
My whole journey along the coast has naturally
included talk of sharks, many people bringing
up the topic without prompting. It is a
reality of spending any amount of time in
the water in much of Australia, and South
Australia particularly, that thoughts turn
to sharks. Comments like these from Craig
Anderson are common, ‘the ocean keeps you
on your toes, literally. You ride more waves
in South Australia than anywhere else, there’s
no one around. This is a good thing as you
never want to keep your legs dangling in
the water for too long for fear of what lies
beneath.’ The statistics however suggest
that these fears may be unwarranted, with
an estimated 100,000,000 beach visits annually
and an average of only 0.9 fatalities country
wide. In 2015 there were twenty-two
unprovoked attacks; one was fatal. Fifteen
incidents involved surfers or bodyboarders.
Historically, Australia sits second in the
world behind the United States for confirmed
unprovoked shark attacks, and while the
frequency of attacks is climbing, the
percentage of attacks resulting in a fatality
is falling. Worldwide, if you’re unfortunate
enough to be attacked by a shark, you have
fairly good odds of surviving. Unfortunately
in South Australia those odds are much lower,
purely due to the size of sharks that call our
waters home.
It’s Anzac Day, April 25th 2015; the day dawns
wet and overcast. Chris Blowes and a couple
of mates make their way to the dawn service
in the Port Lincoln drizzle. They have plans
to go for a surf afterwards. Chris and his
partner Chloe have moved to Port Lincoln for
work. They love the coast, the lifestyle and
have made some good friends easily in their
four years on the Eyre Peninsula. Chloe is
in Adelaide this particular day for a music
festival with friends. The dawn service has
finished and the boys have jumped in the
car, pre-loaded with boards and wetsuits.
Chris scans the lineup.
Land
34°55’
They’re looking out at an uninspiring scene,
grey skies and wind messing the sea surface,
rain coming in sideways. They suit up regardless
and join a lineup with a few blokes
surfing already. They paddle out at Right
Point, Fishery Bay, a thirty-minute drive from
Lincoln, a popular beach with families and
surfers, breaks at either point of the bay and
a perfect learn-to-surf beachie in the middle.
It’s a beautiful bay, and one of Chris and
Chloe’s favourite spots on the Eyre Peninsula.
Normally the bay is sweeping with white sand
and turquoise water, but today it’s a mess. It
also has a reputation for sharks. A surfer was
attacked here at Left Point in 2005, lucky to
get away with a gnashed board and an amazing
story. More recently however the stories of
surfers being charged and bumped have come
with increasing frequency. Liguanea Island is
only four kilometres away from Fishery Bay
and it is the temporary home to some twentyfive
sharks — one of two known, great white
shark aggregation sites within South Australia.
Chris doesn’t know any of this as he paddles
out, never having worried too much about the
possibility of an attack. He surfs for a few
hours, the conditions not improving, the
water murky, underwater visibility almost
non-existent. Still the boys enjoy their
surf, the lineup familiar and the faces around
them friendly.
Chris kicks out after riding a wave. He’s
turned to paddle back out when he feels
a powerful force crush him from the left.
He knows immediately what’s happening.
The shark has hit Chris hard, breaching the
surface completely, turning back on itself
in the air. It’s an awesome sight, the shark
reportedly huge, close to twenty feet in
length. He yells out, all the surfers in the
water now aware of the primal fight happening
metres away. People on the beach turn to see
what the commotion is. Someone picks up
and calls an ambulance before the attack has
finished. Chris’s mates paddle towards him
frantically, in disbelief at what is unfolding
before them. The shark releases Chris from
its jaws. He’s bleeding, sees the rocks only
metres away and swims for it. Maybe he can
survive this? He’s hit again, this time on
his left leg. He drags in a breath as the shark
pulls him under. How long will he be down for?
135°41’
How deep is he being pulled? The shark shakes
him from side to side like a rag doll. Blood
pools on the surface. His mates can’t see him
anywhere. They think he’s dead; Chris thinks
he’s dead. A bloke in the water has already
taken off his legrope in anticipation of

07.7”S
making a tourniquet, but still Chris hasn’t His survival has been repeatedly attributed
surfaced. They’re only ten metres from the to a miracle, though Chris puts it down to an
point and safety. The shark rips through incredible amount of luck and professionalism
Chris’s leg and he’s free. He scrambles to from the emergency services. ‘The golden
the surface, breaking the sea of red, the baton of survival was never dropped,’ he
only colour on an otherwise bleak day. A hand tells me. By the time the ambulance meets
reaches out and tries to pull Chris onto a the car with Chris in the back seat, his heart
board, but they’re hit by a wave. He loses his has stopped beating. The handover to the
grip and is rolled by the ocean, taunted by the ambulance officers happens just in time, they
waves. He manages to climb on a mate’s back, immediately begin to attempt resuscitation.
and together they struggle to the rocks. He’s By chance on this day there is a third person
safe on land, but another fight has just begun. in the ambulance, something that rarely
Someone has tied the legrope around his leg, happens, and it allows the two ambos to work
someone else gets him lying on his back on on Chris while the third person drives. This
a board, and ten people help him across the is one of the many contributing factors to
rocks to a waiting car. Chris’s thoughts begin Chris’s remarkable survival, and not the
to blur. It’s a mad scramble, but thankfully first bit of luck, nor the last.
there are many people at the beach. If it
wasn’t Anzac day, it could have been a
His blood pressure has dropped dangerously
different story.
low and he is pumped full of saline solution
as the ambos continue CPR. The hospital ahead
Chris is bleeding profusely from his multiple is preparing for Chris’ arrival, a helicopter
wounds. He has a large gaping wound on the on standby. Someone has called Chloe to tell
left side of his chest and punctures along her what’s happened, though they can’t pass
the bite mark. His left leg has been torn on any details of his condition. Back in the
off above the knee and his left hand damaged hospital, it’s now an hour since the attack.
from trying to push the shark away. He begins There’s been no sign of life now for a long
to lose consciousness, his blood pressure time, and twice they have considered ceasing
rapidly falling. He’s now in the back of his CPR. Another thirty minutes passes, there’s a
car flying along the highway towards Port team of fifteen people now working frantically
Lincoln, hoping to meet an ambulance heading to save Chris. Once again the question is
their way. It’s been only a matter of minutes asked: do we continue? After an hour-and-ahalf
of CPR a faint pulse is detected. No one
since Chris was sitting on his board in the
water chatting with friends.
in the surgery can believe it, after no sign
of life for near ninety minutes. Blood is
pumped into Chris as the hospital staff get
him aboard the air ambulance to Adelaide,
scarcely believing he has been revived. They
arrive on the helipad at the Royal Adelaide
Hospital just as they run out of blood; a nurse
stands on the helipad with a fresh bag in hand.
Chris is still unconscious and will remain so
for the next ten days.
Ten days later Chris awakes from an induced
coma in hospital in Adelaide. He’s disorientated
and in tremendous pain, unaware that
he has been attacked by a shark. His family
and Chloe are nearby. He’s been having
nightmares of being crushed by an excavator
at work, the drugs swimming in his blood
adding to the confusion. As his friends and
family tell him what has happened, it comes
back to him in waves. He has a long recovery
ahead of him. Chris had been attacked by
a great white shark.
When I meet with Chris to discuss his
attack, he’s remarkably matter-of-fact about
it. Of all serious shark attacks in South
Australia, Chris’s has hit home hardest for
me. I don’t know what it was about this attack
03.1”E
particularly — perhaps his age, perhaps his
remarkable survival, perhaps the violence of
the attack juxtaposed against such a beautiful
landscape. I want to hear his story firsthand
as someone whose life has been so drastically
changed by the seascape of my home.
People on the beach watch as Chris’s board
is dragged across the bay, the legrope still
attached to both his board and his leg, his leg
still in the shark’s mouth. The macabre scene
continues for many minutes after the attack.
His leg is eventually discovered by the police
the next day, along with his board, teeth
still embedded in the fibreglass.
Sea
You

Land
Sea
C
Edithburgh.
It’s mid-November, 2016, and I’ve just reached
Edithburgh. There’s an ocean swimming pool
here with the remnants of a shark enclosure
from years gone by and only ten kilometres
past the memorial for Sam Kellet I’d passed
earlier that day. I’ve ridden a stretch of
coast marked by a winding dirt tourist drive,
a windfarm and the imposing eighteen-metre
Troubridge Point Lighthouse. It is one of my
favourite drives along the South Australian
coast and that day it’s a beautiful ride
through the swaying golden fields that meet
the crisp dark blue waters of the southern
Yorke Peninsula. A mild sun saturates the
landscape with colour.
My parents have joined me for a couple of
days for my birthday, and I’m pretty stoked
to have the company and armfuls of fresh
food they bring with them. They also bring
an honesty that only parents get away with,
telling me I need a shower desperately.
Worryingly, everyone I’ve met previously
had said I smelt fine, meaning they had been
overly polite whilst enduring their time with
me. My girls will be joining me in a couple of
days too, in one of my favourite parts of the
world. Whilst I’m in Edithburgh I receive a
message through Instagram asking whether
I’d like to be involved with a meeting of
Instagrammers from around Australia, hosted
back on the Eyre Peninsula. It would be a few
days of shark cage diving and swimming with
sea lions with Adventure Bay Charters in a
couple of weeks’ time. If I could make it to
Adelaide before the Instameet kicked off,
I could jump on a plane and be back in Port
Lincoln within a couple of hours. My only
reservation now was whether or not I wanted
to cage dive with great white sharks, not
for fear of sharks but rather an opposition
to the practice.
My love and respect for sharks is absolute.
Ever since I was young I’ve been fascinated
by the beasts below, the white pointer in
particular. I studied marine biology to
further understand these amazing creatures,
but it slowly dawned on me in my mid-twenties
that my love of the ocean was better fulfilled
through a viewfinder rather than a microscope,
and my interest in all things marine
was better expressed photographically. I have
always, however, kept abreast of advancements
and ongoing scientific study regarding the
great white, maintaining an active interest
in one of the most feared animals on earth,
one that we are so fortunate to have swimming
on our doorstep. There are rumblings within
the surf community that cage diving attracts
sharks that otherwise wouldn’t hang around
and that the populations in South Australian
waters would start associating human activity
with the presence of food through the practice
of baiting and burley. There is a fear that we
are interfering with natural feeding events,
and as a result residency times in South
Australian waters are changing. Anecdotally,
surfers are reporting more sightings and
more shark-human interactions than ever
before and a recent spate of fatal shark
attacks on the east and west coasts of
Australia have added to this fear. Port Lincoln
is home to the only three shark-cage diving
operations in Australia and is therefore on
the front line of the debate. You can’t walk
down its paths without seeing brash ten-foot
posters of an open-mouthed shark breaking
the surface, playing to the primal fears
of tourists. One operator has advertising
plastered across buses, shop fronts, cars,
boats and in every brochure rack in town;
it is inescapable. Port Lincoln has always
been synonymous with seafood and now that
is widening to include shark-cage diving.
H
APTER
S
EV
E
NTEEN35°04’54.
We have the world’s best practice for cage
diving here in South Australia and the
opportunities for education and conservation
cannot be overlooked. All three operators are
limited to diving within the Neptune Island
Marine Park, sixty kilometres across the wild
deep blue southern ocean from Port Lincoln.
The Neptune Islands Group is home to the
largest seal and sealion colonies in Australia
and a natural aggregation site for great white
sharks. The group has a series of granite
formations growing sharply from the sea
bottom in the continental shelf waters,
protected from commercial and recreational
fishing in a perimeter extending four
kilometres out to sea. The islands have been
cage dived since the 1960’s, both commercially
and for scientific research. They are world
renowned for their bio-diversity and
frequency of great white shark sightings.
Me

They are home to a vast array of marine
mammals, birds, fish, rays and sea grasses,
fed by shifting currents, wind and waves.
The marine park is beautifully rugged and
hostile, an extraordinarily rich area of our
coastline that attracts conservationists,
scientists and thrill seekers in equal number.
The invitation to cage dive forces me to
confront my own concerns around the practice.
Does the practice of cage diving, in particular
using burley and baiting, significantly change
the behaviour of sharks outside of the park?
Is it morally acceptable to intervene in the
natural processes of high-order predators
for the purposes of tourism? Should we be
encouraging shark-human interactions? Does
cage diving increase the chances of attacks
on surfers and swimmers? If there’s a minute
possibility of increasing the chances of attack
such as the one that happened to Chris,
I wouldn’t be involved.
big lunch and power on through the afternoon
and ride until 7PM with sunshine. The
cricket’s on the radio, the road is empty and
the weather is perfect. I ride from Edithburgh
to Ardrossan in a day, passing the memorial
to the seven sperm whales beached on the
intertidal flats of Ardrossan two years earlier
— seven dolomite boulders, each representing
one of the stranded whales, each named by the
local school children. The next large town I
make will be Port Wakefield and the end of my
three weeks or so on the Yorke Peninsula and
within a hundred kilometres of my own bed.
8”S 137°
We are fortunate in South Australia in that
the Neptune Islands have a history of rigorous
science and strong conservation so that we
have data from decades past. And there are
many public and private voices demanding
44’
the best practice for the safety of both the
sharks and us. Recent studies have concluded
that there is a definite localised change in
behaviour, essential for the success of baited
cage diving, but that any wider effects on
shark behaviour are inconclusive.
The other issues I grapple with are much
53.0”
harder to quantify. On my journey, many
people had spoken about sharks and the
impact such concerns are having on the
collective psyche of communities along the
coastline. Having the opportunity to come
face-to-face with the fish would allow me an
opportunity to contextualise the response
many people have to sharks. I would be diving
E
with Adventure Bay Charters if I were to go,
the one operator that does not chum, nor
bait. It would take the rest of my ride up
the east coast of the Yorke Peninsula to
make my decision.
From Edithburgh I head north, only a few more
days to go on the Yorke Peninsula. I find some
of the more challenging and alluring tracks of
my whole journey along the cliffs of the east
coast, protected beaches inviting families and
grey nomads in their droves. The ride takes on
climbs, bitumen road, single-track and deep
sand. These are some of the best days on the
road; I can stop into small towns to grab a
You

C
H
APTER
E
I
G
H
TEEN
Me
Land
get a first-person understanding of the great
white, to see the feared apex predator as
close to its natural habitat and behaviour
as possible, without the use of bait or burley.
35°14’03.
It seems like a natural progression, from
North
Neptune
hearing about the beast swimming below
the surface to coming face-to-face with the
Island.
reality. It wasn’t a decision I made lightly,
the science still inconclusive with regards
to behavioural changes from cage diving.
Adventure Bay Charters participate in ongoing
research on the sharks they see and are
The sea surface undulates a metre and a half extremely passionate about the health and
above me. I have a weight belt wrapped around
my waist and camera in hand, safely tucked
away in its housing. I’m floating out to sea
in a cage — just me with the sea floor fourteen
metres below. I can’t see anything below me
apart from the inky blue, light is filtered in
streams around me, and a few trevally swim
past. The boat I’m tethered to is growing
smaller as I drift further away. I’m waiting
hopefully to catch a glimpse of a great white
shark. The cage around me is just big enough
for one person; the four floats attached to the
top and a bottle of air at my feet are its only
features. There’s a rope connecting the cage
to the boat, but apart from that, I’m on my
own at the mercy of the ocean. I’m straining
my eyes for something in the deep blue below,
trying to ignore the cold, hoping to see a
silhouette of the feared fish. I scan in all
directions around me, searching amongst the
apparent silence for a beast. Then, movement
below me, right below me in fact. I’ve missed
its arrival. How long has it been there?
It slices through the water without effort,
silent, beautiful. It’s over four metres, not
one of the big girls, but still phenomenal
in size. It cruises past me at eye level, its
dorsal fin just breaks the surface, one eye on
me as it circles my cage. It’s calm, inquisitive
and elegant. I hesitate to anthropomorphise,
but it is difficult not to when the shark
passes so close, eyes tracking me, a
primordial intelligence behind its black
pupils. It circles my cage three times and
then disappears as quietly as it arrived.
Suddenly I’m alone once again, the only
sound my breathing.
safety of the shark populations, acting as
educators to their guests on board. The North
Neptune Islands sits off the stern of the boat,
bird life and seals abound. On the horizon
sits Wedge Island, the same island you can
see so clearly from the bottom of the Yorke
Peninsula, only seventy kilometres across
the water.
I grab myself a steaming cup of coffee on
the boat in a vain attempt to warm myself
up. I slide once again below the surface,
colder now, but still captivated by the fish
that sit on the edge of visibility. Their size
and grace is truly wondrous, their weight on
the human psyche equally so. I watch one pass
through my viewfinder, trying to imagine how
I’d be feeling if I wasn’t behind the safety of
the cage. If I’d been diving for abs, or sitting
on my surfboard when the fish passed. I watch
a great white, a sub-adult male, its tail
sweeping from side-to-side, showing no signs
of aggression or fear. It’s neither interested
in me nor distressed by my presence. I think
of how fortunate I am to be watching the
shark in such a pristine environment, the
species listed as vulnerable, only decades
earlier targeted for sport. It’s a humbling
experience, to witness the unbridled power
of the beast. In a world where we are
increasingly taming nature, to have such
graceful predators moving through our waters
is comforting, occasionally reminding us of
our ungainly presence in their world. From
swimming in the shadows of our subconscious
to swimming in the filtered light of my
viewfinder, it is a breathtaking transformation.
I hang my camera by my side and watch
the sharks in the distance, the calm of the
underwater world washes over me as I sway
with the current. I remind myself to enjoy
136°04’
the moment, to take in the majesty of the
sharks and the seascape, the world they
have ruled for tens of millions of years.
I had decided to join the Instameet and shark
cage dive in the Neptune Islands. I arrived
in Adelaide, parked my bike at home and
got a lift to the airport to fly back to the
Eyre Peninsula. We are a crew of nineteen:
journalists, writers, photographers and
bloggers, hosted by Adventure Bay Charters.
I’ve made the decision to cage dive to try and

Sea
You
The next morning I’m up and out, wanting
to get back into a rhythm after almost
a week off the bike. I make Second Valley
by early afternoon but haven’t planned
5”S
on staying there. It’s a blue sky day, puffy
clouds and crystal clear water. I don’t move
on. When Second Valley turns it on, it’s tough
to turn your back on it. It’s South Australia’s
version of the Mediterranean, except with
only a tiny portion of the population. The
Moana.
rolling hills and jutting seaward-sloping
surfaces make for protected sandy bays along
C Sleeping back in my bed for a couple of
this stretch of coast. It is a beautiful and
H
APTER
nights feels bizarre. I still had dreadlocks; photogenic area, completely unique and
my camping gear is still spread out across distinct from anywhere else on the southern
the living room floor; I still have hands Australian coastline. Farms meet the sea,
covered in grease even after two days in creeks and rivers meander their way through
N the water in Port Lincoln, and I’m still
the land, the sun sets over azure waters and
IN
not finished. I check maps and write in
rises over the red cliffs, these pockets of
E
TEEN
my journal but now at my kitchen table, sand protected by the fingers of land.
connected to my own wifi. Myf has picked
me up from the airport after
35°12’
the trip back I’d been on the road for four months by the
to Port Lincoln and I enjoy two nights at time I passed through the familiar streets
home before moving further along the coast. of home. I hadn’t encountered any real hills
I won’t see my girls again until I reach the to speak of in all that time, but the climb
Victorian border and I don’t know when that out of Second Valley will change that. Nothing
will be. These couple of days are a culture gets the heart racing and the lungs hoofing
shock. I don’t feel at home and I don’t
like climbing on a bike, and it turns out
feel like I’m on the road. The couch is as that I still don’t have my climbing legs after
comfortable as always, but
35.6”S
I know I can’t all the kilometres so far. It’s a specialised
get too comfy. The fridge is full of food, cycling skill, one that I’ve never managed to
but none of it for me. I can’t unpack; I’m accomplish. I grind out the small climbs with
not home. I shower in my own shower, catch sweat dripping down my forehead and stinging
up on a barrage of emails and plan my next my eyes once more. If it were just me and
few days in the saddle.
the bike climbing, it would be an exhilarating
challenge, but fully loaded with a trailer
I hit the road from home and ride over roads it’s a challenge to find a monotonous groove.
I was so familiar with, I stop for coffee at
my local, ride past my local break with not
a wave in sight and after a day’s ride I’m
still only an hour’s drive from home. I’m
in the Twilight Zone, after being on the bike
for so long and riding through such foreign
lands, riding over such familiar ground is
strange. I aim for Carrackalinga that night,
a place where I’ve grown up, spending my
summer holidays exploring her beaches and
swimming in her waters. I camp that night
in a caravan park fronting the ocean, riding
into Normanville for a margherita pizza
before sunset. I want to shoot a silhouette
of the peninsula from the water after the
sun has set. I suit up in my tent and walk
the few metres to the shoreline. It’s a
My aim for the day was to make Deep Creek and
a campground near Blowhole Beach, one of the
more inaccessible beaches in the region, but
undoubtedly worth the trek. After the climbs
of the day I begin to descend. Dirt roads and
afternoon sun combine with a long descent
into camp — the perfect way to end the day.
Kangaroos bound alongside as I rode through
the drooping sheoaks and yaccas, golden light
streaming through the fronds, dust kicked
up as I roll with the slope. I set up camp at
the top of the hill amongst the thick bush
and make my way down to the beach, the sun
sliding behind the clouds, the most beautiful
vista unfolding before me. Kangaroo Island
sits on the horizon fourteen kilometres across
23.9”E
beautiful night in the water, the pastels of Backstairs Passage, clear and crisp in the afternoon
light, silhouetted by the setting sun.
the spring light sliding across the surface.
Little wind, warm water and growing colour
in the sky. It’s nice to be back in the waters The rolling hills of the Fleurieu are a welcome
of home.
change from the monotonous flat of the first

months on the road. The ride out of Deep Creek
continues on dirt roads for an hour or two
before hitting the back roads through the
Inman Valley. So far, I’ve been able to avoid
highways and main roads, and this is the
first real time I’ve had to deal with traffic,
although it doesn’t last long. It’s a hard day’s
ride over familiar roads, and being so close
to home, only an hour’s drive from my family,
is taking its toll on my motivation. Myf and
Juno have made the drive to Melbourne over
the past couple of days to wait for me in the
company of family and friends. I should be
there in a couple of weeks, and just in time,
I reckon. Fatigue and the demand of hauling
my life behind me on the bike is catching
up with me. I feel like I haven’t made a
photo of any substance for two or three days.
Land
I’ll be looking to make Hindmarsh Island
tomorrow via Goolwa. I take stock of my
situation trying to overcome my frustrations.
Physically I’m fit, injury-free and looking
forward to the Coorong. The Third Test
between Australia and South Africa is on
at the Adelaide Oval under lights and,
more importantly, on my radio. I’ll pick
up some fresh food from Goolwa with a bottle
of The Saviour, and look forward to a quiet
Saturday night on the island. I’ll get into
phone reception tomorrow night so I can
Skype the girls, and my folks are coming to
meet me in a couple of days with a life-long
mate and his daughter in tow. I’m in a good
place; I just need a good sleep. I turn on my
radio and catch the last session of the cricket
as I fall asleep. Kangaroos scratch around
my tent, an owl hoots in the distance.
The frustrations of my day are exacerbated
when I arrive in Victor Harbor mid-afternoon.
138°28’
It’s the first night of Schoolies Week
celebrations and there are school leavers
everywhere. I haven’t seen any more than a
handful of people at any one time for months
now and to go from riding solo to arriving in
a small town swarming with people is a little
overwhelming. It also means that any campsite
close to town is going to be overflowing with
37.4”E
schoolies letting loose, and rightly so. I gorge
myself on a couple of tofu Vietnamese rolls
and make a U-turn back to Waitpinga Beach,
a detour of twenty-something kilometres.
Newland Head Conservation Park is a truly
celestial part of our coast and hosts two
of South Australia’s more well-known beach
breaks in Waitpinga and Parsons Beach.
Me
Unfortunately for surfers, the waves are
fickle: they promise so often but only deliver
occasionally. If you’ve grown up surfing in
Adelaide, chances are your first surf in a
heavy beachie was at Waitpinga or Parsons,
one of the few beaches locally that can handle
size when conditions line up. Waitpinga,
an Aboriginal word meaning ‘home of the
winds’, houses many significant and historic
Aboriginal sites, campsites, tools, hearths
and shell middens. Other sites at nearby
Cape Jervis are evidence of some of the
earliest Aboriginal occupation on the Fleurieu
Peninsula. Tonight I camp in the protection
of the Waitpinga sand dunes, as so many have
before me. The clear sky above me and the
comforting drone of the ocean drifting over
the dunes are the same sights and sounds
someone lying here 40,000 years ago would
have experienced.

C
H
APTER
T
W
E
N
TY
35°
Sea
We wrote our journals by hand; we read newspapers
when we could get our hands on one;
all our photographs were shot on film; we made
phone calls from phone boxes and we navigated
by physical maps and charts. It was a different
time from 2016, but there still remained
some universal hardships when taking on
long, gruelling physical challenges. The food
Hindmarsh
30’
for long-haul touring hasn’t improved much.
Nights in the tent are still freezing. There’s
Island.
still the fear of the unknown. The body aches
worst in the morning and the Australian bush
What is it about being on an island that is still unforgiving. Conversely, there are
feels so
17.7”
distinctive? I’ve felt it before many some feelings only felt by those who have
times. As soon as you hop off the boat or achieved a challenge they have set for themselves:
the joy, the elation, the high. The way
cross the bridge there is a feeling of freedom.
The air tastes better, the sky is bigger, and people welcome you into their lives when you
the people walk at an exaggeratedly slower set out to accomplish something out of the
pace. Suddenly the bike feels like it has had ordinary. The generosity and encouragement
a service and a good oil, gears click into place of strangers, often without words: we would
with a clack, wheels roll on rails, headwinds wake up in the morning with food left for us
become Stail. I roll into the campground on a beside our tents, and the same would happen
high. There’s little to no traffic on Hindmarsh to me again on LAND SEA YOU ME.
Island and the weather is perfect for cycling.
It’s mid-afternoon when I pay my ten bucks So here I was, only a few kilometres away
to the camp owner, who throws me a free from the river where years earlier I had
lemonade from the fridge, stoked by the cemented my love of long-haul adventuring
journey I’m on, and recommending a bunch and also proved to myself that I could
of sights to see on the island — the mouth overcome significant physical hardship.
of the River Murray, the beginning of the I was on the home stretch now.To get to the
Coorong, chief among them. The meeting of campground, you pass through the island’s
Australia’s greatest river and the roaring only caravan park with its camp kitchen and
Southern Ocean is where fresh water meets showers, then over a rise and there it is —
salt and also where two of my greatest
a wide open expanse fenced by pine trees.
adventures meet.
I set up camp under a giant lone pine tree
in the centre of the clearing and wave to
Over a decade ago my best friend Andy and a young couple camped not too far away.
I decided to kayak the length of the Murray. There is one other tent set up far across
We were in our early twenties and had both the other side of the campground, but that’s
been saving and training for the journey it. I choose the pine for that extra bit of
for a year whilst studying at university. protection from the elements, acutely aware
I was studying marine biology and Andy was of how quickly the weather can change on the
studying to become a pilot, the generous coast, and I take the opportunity of getting
holidays offering us ample time to dream and in early to cook a proper meal and charge my
then achieve. New Year’s Day saw us slide into phone, laptop and camera batteries in the
our kayaks at Yarrawonga in northern Victoria, camp kitchen. The young couple come in too.
close to the base of Australia’s alpine region. They have a bottle of Canadian Club Whisky in
We would spend the next forty-seven nights the freezer and a bottle of Coke in the fridge,
on the river, experiencing the extraordinary mixing generous glasses of the two. It’s an
heat of summer, watching the river water awkward space and an awkward chat. They’re
go from clear and flowing, to a brown lake, from Tassie but have hit the road to spend
apparently kilometres wide. 2000 kilometres time with family in South Australia. They’ve
in the seat of a kayak with only each other for been camped here for a day or two and are
company, we overcame rashes, bites, stings, trying to move on but their 4WD isn’t
fires, weeping wounds, sun and wind burn. starting. They invite me to sit around their
They were the days before podcasts, before campfire that evening, but I say, we’ll see —
Facebook, before Google Maps. Our entertainment
revolved around a travel Chess set with me. I won’t have to wait long to have
something about the boy doesn’t sit right
and two AM radios designed for the shower. that feeling justified.
You

Land
It’s day three of the Test Match, technically
a dead rubber, but it has turned into an
unlikely contest between bat and ball. We had
a swag of new blood in the team and Khawaja
has played the innings of his career. It’s deep
into the second session when I hear screaming
coming from the 4WD at the campsite closest
to me. The young couple have begun to argue
and I have a feeling it will turn violent. I
call Myf to ask for advice, and outside, it was
horrible to listen to: the ‘fuck yous’ are flying
thick, accompanied by desperate screams.
He calls her a dog-cunt, telling her to shut
the fuck up, screaming that he’d punch her
in the face, again. I make a decision, hang up
from Myf and call the police. The young woman
jumps out of the car and runs, followed closely
by the man wearing only a t-shirt and underwear.
In any other circumstance it would be
comical. He catches up to her, throws her on
the ground, lies on top of her and punches the
ground beside her head over and over again.
I have no idea what to do. I’m on the phone
to the police: ‘Yes, I’m willing to make a
statement. No, I didn’t see him hit her but
he just threw her on the ground in front of
me.’ Outside, the two separate, the coward
going back to the car and locking himself in.
She lies on the ground, sobbing but otherwise
not moving until she runs at the car,
pounding on the windows so hard I’m sure
she’s going to smash one. He’s screaming
from inside, she from outside. She slumps
in a heap on the ground, sobbing once again,
and eventually he lets her in. Still I worry
for her safety. Should I intervene? Thankfully,
within minutes the police arrive. All is quiet
inside the 4WD.
When they finally emerge from their car, the
police officer separates the couple, the coward
belligerent, insistent that there’s nothing
to worry about. I hear the officer say he fears
for the young woman’s safety and he calls
an ambulance to have her checked out. She’s
still crying. A paddy-wagon arrives with the
ambulance. They are both taken away in the
ambulance, and I feel vindicated for calling
the police. I lie in my tent feeling better
that the young woman is receiving
professional care and turn the radio back
on to catch the last few overs of the cricket.
A few hours later I’m awoken by sounds outside
my tent. The couple are back, and now drunker
than before. The coward fires up at me through
thin tent fabric, ‘fuck you cunt for calling
the cops.’ I remain awake for the rest of the
night, captive in my tent. They sit in their
camp, alternating between yelling at each
other and apologising to each other. Finally
drinking themselves into a stupor, they
pass out sometime around 3AM.
I can’t get off the island fast enough but the
claustrophobic, sleepless night means the
morning is slow. I wake and quietly pack down
my tent, trying to skulk away unseen. I’m
packed, showered and ready to roll out when
I stop by the camp kitchen to make myself my
morning coffee — I would need a couple to get
me on the road. There, back in that awkward
space the young girl enters, two cups in her
hand, ready to make cups of tea for herself
and the coward. There’s a noise outside the
kitchen and there he is, head hung low, no
eye contact, standing on the edge of the
doorway and listening to our conversation.
I’m desperate to leave, but why am I the
one feeling guilty? I pick up my coffee,
wish her well and get going, not looking back.
On the bike I’m feeling groggy. A fitful sleep
from bearing witness to the violence of the
night before has left me feeling off-centre.
It is a feeling that won’t leave me for at least
the next week. I spend the morning at the
mouth of the Murray River, Goolwa to my right
and the Coorong to my left. My parents come
to meet me for the morning, reminding me
how close to home I still am. I want to enjoy
my time with them. I’ve invited them here
specifically to meander with me on the island,
but by the time they arrive, I want off. In an
hour they’ll be back in the comfort of their
house; they could just as easily swing by
mine on the way home and drop me off. No
more tired legs, no more saddle sores, no
more packet pasta. I’d be in my own bed. I
could even watch a movie! I’ve been tossing
up the next stage of my route. Do I ride
around the lakes and head inland for a day
or do I attempt to cross the five barrages
between Goolwa and the Coorong? I’ve made
a few enquiries as to whether the barragecrossing
is possible, and so far all the locals
I’ve chatted to suggest it can’t be done.
There’s a short video on the Internet of a
cyclist making the crossing, but a security
gate has been vandalised and it allows him
to make the journey. Has that gate been
repaired? It would be a day’s ride to find out,
at the very end of the crossing. If it had been
repaired, I would have to turn around and make
the inland journey anyway, wasting a day’s
ride. I have to head back to Port Elliot to pick
up a couple of butane cannisters so I’ll ask
around or see if I can pick up a lift on a boat.
Me

The ride back to Port Elliot from Goolwa is
an easy but disheartening one, once again
along the dedicated bike path along the coast
through the enchanting remnant melaleuca
forest and parallel to the train line. Detours
when you’re in a car aren’t too much of a
hassle, but back-tracking when you’re biketouring
is extremely frustrating, particularly
for something so quotidian as butane. I make
the choice to stay in the Port Elliot Caravan
Park that night, recharge all my batteries,
wash my clothes and do a shop for the next
week on the Coorong. I’m still feeling flat;
I’ve really hit the wall. Reading back over
my journal gives an insight into where I was
at the time. ‘Over it. Tired. Over zips, over
riding, over hills, over no reception, over
not being with my girls, over rude people,
over setting up my tent every day, over cold
nights. Over shit light and shit foregrounds.’
The incident with the coward has set off
feelings that have been brewing ever since
Myf told me she was pregnant. A primordial
switch was flicked when I read the card; I no
longer want to be on the bike, I’m no longer
comfortable alone. Suddenly the only thing
in my life I’m worried about is the health
and safety of my girls; the rest of my
journey is insignificant. I want to pack
it all in, pack it all up and head home. I’d
missed out on birthdays, weddings, funerals,
and now I’m missing out on ultrasounds,
hearing a heart-beat and all the wondrous
and challenging moments of the first months
of a pregnancy. Perhaps most importantly
friends who run tours, others who might
have access to a boat, but I’m still out of luck.
The security gate has been repaired too, Ben
manages to find out. We sit in the afternoon
sunshine, its warmth, the best pizza of the
journey, a beer, a friendly face, and good
conversation all help to turn my temperament
around. Small interactions like this have
fuelled me on my journey: smiles, g’days,
meals and conversations have all inspired
me to keep moving east, the possibility of
the next photograph just around the bend,
the next fire under a dramatic sky only a
couple of days away. I’m here for the beauty
and the beast of South Australia and some
days are tougher than others, I know. I just
need someone to remind me.
The rolling hills of the Fleurieu continue
as I make my way out of Port Elliot the next
morning, reinvigorated. I’m excited now that
I only have a couple more weeks in the saddle.
I grab a coffee from the bakery, fill up on
water and make my way inland. Nick Cave and
The Bad Seeds’ new album plays through my
headphones as I move with the undulating
roads around the lakes, 100 kms passing
138°
beneath my tyres that day.
however, I won’t be there for Myf
48’
if she
needed me. She was now alone with a toddler
and pregnant. I feel pretty helpless.
I leave the caravan park for a walk. It’s a
sunny afternoon and I want to change my
mindset and for once, getting on the bike
wouldn’t help. Port Elliot is a burgeoning
coastal town where Adelaide goes
54.4”
to holiday.
It has a few streets starting to sprout
cafes and galleries and a growing artistic
community. I’m on the hunt for a light bite
to eat when I bump into Benjamin Hewett,
friend and sponsor, his clothing line Yeo
Haus being the first to give me support for
the journey. He offers me a beer and we settle
in for the afternoon. He can see Ethe fatigue
in my face, the incident with the coward fresh
in my mind. We catch up and share stories
of surf and swells from the past few months,
the highs and lows from the road and the
challenge of getting across the lower lakes
of the Murray River. Ben is on the phone
trying to get me across the lakes, calling
Sea
You

Land
and the inland banks of the salty lagoon. From
the mouth of the Murray to Cape Jaffa runs the
Coorong Lagoon and Younghusband Peninsula,
the dunes of the peninsula marching landward
with the prevailing onshore winds.
C
H
APTER
T
W
E
N
TY
O
NE
Salt Creek.
The smells of camping on the bank of the
Murray River are unique, and for me redolent
with memories of mud and sweat. I’m on the
banks and in the same state I was last time
I was standing here over ten years ago — tired,
famished, sore and thin. Looking at a map
of the coastline I can’t help but feel this
crossing of the river is a literal and metaphorical
milestone for the journey. I honestly
didn’t think I’d make it this far, but now that
I have, I feel I’m on the downhill slope, wind at
my back and the sun on the horizon. It’s only
a mere 450 kilometres to the finish line from
here, or a five-hour drive, as Google Maps tells
me. Myf could be here in mere hours if I made
the call. Standing between me and the finish
line are some of the more interesting areas
of South Australia — much of it I’ve yet to
explore. I’m aiming to get to the Coorong
tonight but after yesterday’s effort in the
saddle, my body’s not up for another big day.
I take the ferry across the Murray in the
morning, the water flowing quickly beneath
the punt. I’m circling the lakes and there’s
a stiff wind messing the surface, making
today’s ride uncomfortable. It takes all day
to make Meningie, only fifty-odd kms, but a
tough fifty kilometres nonetheless. I arrive
36°08’10.
sometime in the late afternoon. I’ve got The Coorong and Lower Lakes are a system
a little work to do for an interview I have of freshwater river flows and tidal oceanic
just given for ABC TV, so I need power and waters. Historically they formed a dynamic
reception, but it’s that awkward time in estuarine ecosystem, supporting one of
a small town where the cafe and bakery are the most populated regions in Australia for
closed and the restaurant isn’t yet open. many thousands of years prior to European
I find a campsite next to Lake Albert, a camp settlement. The modern landscape of the
kitchen not too far away that has power. It Coorong, particularly the Younghusband
was one of the only times on the road that Peninsula formed sometime over the past
I went to sleep to the sound of frogs, one
of only two nights next to freshwater and
one of very few nights I slept without the
sound of the ocean.
The next morning would be a short ride to
my first camp on the Coorong, Parnka Point,
the closest point on the Coorong between
the dunes of the Younghusband Peninsula
I set up camp on the banks of the lagoon and
go for a swim in the warm, hyper-saline water
with my camera, I can smell the salt, snakes
passing me on the bank as I swim. The bird life
is a feature of the region, and at water level,
it’s easy to see why it’s such a draw-card for
twitchers. Endless flocks of sea-birds fly overhead,
native ducks pass with noisy abandon,
pelicans and swans land with a graceful parting
of the water. The subtlety of the Coorong’s
beauty takes time to appreciate. It is a slow
part of the world, with big skies and small
changes in land and sandscape. The rich
remnant vegetation is abundant and diverse,
the fauna likewise. I make my way back to my
tent and cook up a pasta to the sounds of bird
calls and not much else. Darkness descends
and with it the bugs. The light in my tent is
the only one in the park, and attracts every
species of insect imaginable, the sound of
them hitting the tent, tapping uncannily like
rain drops. The attack continues unabated
until sunrise, when the mozzies return.
A sleepy lizard joins me in the tent at some
stage during the night as well. I’m truly back
in a region crawling with life — in the waters,
the land and the sky. The more time I spend
in the Coorong, the more I recognise the
significance of the land to the Ngarrindjeri
Aboriginal people — their history and the
Dreamtime of the Ngarrindjeri Nation are
inextricably linked to the land, the physical
and spiritual remnants obvious throughout
the area where I’m camping.
7000 years, creating Australia’s longest
beach at 222 kilometres. The area today only
receives a minuscule amount of freshwater
flows from the Murray River system, depleted
by freshwater extraction and river regulation,
but it still remains a wetland of critical
international importance. The first Europeans
to see the Coorong found it equally beguiling,
as I do today.
Me

Sea
The morning is slowed by a flat tyre. It’s
frustratingly hot, too hot to change the tyre
in the tent, but little shade elsewhere, and
the constant onslaught from march flies and
mozzies makes it difficult to stay still for
longer than a few seconds. It’s an awkward
dance, changing a bike tyre and swatting
march flies. The ride from Parnka Point to
Salt Creek is tough and I have the last few
chapters of a terrible audiobook, David
Baldacci’s Absolute Power, to get through
and fifty kilometres to do it. The nature of
the landscape means there’s only one road
cutting through the Coorong and unfortunately
it’s a highway with no shoulder. Trucks fly
past with little room for error, so it’s the
roadhouse and the prospect of a freshly
cooked vegie burger that keep me going.
It’s a relief to finally arrive, and from here
I can get back on to the dirt and safety.
The Salt Creek Roadhouse is something of
a community hall, pub, servo, caravan park
and hunting lodge all in one. It’s one of the
few buildings for a couple of hundred clicks,
and a magnet for all campers, fishos, cyclists
and backpackers in the area. The walls drip
with taxidermy, hunting trophies, racks of
meat, fishing rods and photographs of record
mulloway and the Coorong mullet. It is a
shrine to hunting and fishing, both popular
with the locals and many for whom the area
is their weekend and holiday playground. I
chat with a couple of blokes in front of their
4WD, a proud possession. They’re on a fishing
weekend away and it’s obvious the landscape
and the isolation are one of the reasons
they make camp here so frequently. It’s
about getting away, sitting around a fire and
drinking a few tins, fishing secondary to their
trip. They had just spent two nights at 42 Mile
2”S
Crossing, bush camped on the beach in the
foredune, catching only a few small salmon —
nothing to write up in the record books but
enough to justify calling themselves fishos.
They talk of the quietness of the Coorong,
the wildlife, the friendships and fishing tales
from over the years. You can have a campfire
throughout the year on the beach and with
the dunes behind you, the expansive southern
ocean in front of you and the clear starry
night sky above you, it’s easy to feel you’re in
a special place. Sitting around a fire, feet in
the sand and no sign of anyone else, you could
be sitting here a millennium ago. This, they
tell me, is the feeling that they come for.
I’m camping in the national park, only a few
hundred metres from the roadhouse, but a
world away. Once again, it’s just me at the
campsite. The lagoon envelops the camp,
water having receded here revealing bone
white cracked clay, dotted with the footprints
of roos. It’s the first day of summer, the warm
afternoon sunlight is filtered through the
pink gums and I’m hoping for the end of the
constant storm fronts. The mozzie onslaught
continues with the warming weather, as do
the snakes, with me losing sight of them
immediately they slither into the grass.
I go to sleep once again to a cacophony of
duck calls, pelican pods flying high overhead
against the inky blue. The breeze carries
sounds of the ocean, a constant drone along
the Coorong. The beach is kilometres away
across the lagoon and dunes, but sounds as if
it’s just outside the tent, its song remaining
the same for generations before me.
I’m hoping to check out the crossings along
the Coorong over the next couple of days and
to do a couple of small walks along the lagoons.
The time of year and the amount of water-flow
into the lakes determines the viability of the
few crossings along the Coorong, places where
the lagoon is intersected by enough sand to
access the beach. These crossings are named
after local landmarks or the distance from
the small town of Kingston SE in miles. The
most accessible and popular crossing is the
all-weather 42 Mile Crossing. 4WDs make the
crossing easily, but it’s when they hit the
beach that they often get into trouble: the
sand is fine and deep, and shell grit beds
are frequent. The high energy, restless beach
has constant swell, and is regularly hit by
storm surges and big tides. Campsites are
dotted along its length, set back in the dunes,
occasionally only accessible at low tide. The
sense of adventure in simply making camp
adds
139°
to the feeling of isolation. On the right
tide and with the right equipment, it is
possible to drive the entire length of the
Coorong along the beach. From the air, the
200km beach sweeps slowly in an apparently
never-ending bay, the only interruption a
group of granite erratics dragged hundreds
of kilometres in ice during the Permian
glaciation. The Granites, as they’re called
locally, are twenty kilometres north of
Kingston SE along the beach. They form a
natural attraction for tourists and fishos.
I ride through to 42 Mile Crossing and park
the bike to walk for the last kilometre. The
road to the beach is deep soft sand, impossible
to traverse with a fully loaded bike and
trailer. The beach is beautiful and the
You

Land
afternoon sun behind the sea mist hanging
in the air gives the beach a soft glow in both
directions. There are deep, shell-grit beds
beneath my feet, and I reach down to grab
a handful of shells, their sharp edges worn
smooth by the elements. The dunes behind
me are vegetated with some of the many
flora species that thrive on the Coorong.
My exposure to the Coorong, as for so
many South Australians, has been limited
to Middleton or Goolwa, and here I am,
150 kilometres away, standing on the same
beach, looking at a very similar seascape
and landscape. I’d happily paddle out if I
had a longboard with me. The break is 400
metres offshore and I could be looking at
any one of the breaks I’ve grown up surfing.
There are a few people scattered up and down
the beach, all with their lines wet, but apart
from their silhouettes, there’s little to break
the horizon. I’m aiming to camp at another
crossing tonight, the 28 Mile Crossing, twelve
miles (19.3 kilometres) up the Old Coorong
Road towards Kingston SE. The fishos tell
me it’s an enchanted forest, then hand me
a beer as I say goodbye, and wish me luck.
There’s a stiff, hot tailwind and I’m eager
to take advantage of the conditions while
they last. I pass just one car on the road,
the driver slowing as he passes me, a finger
pointed to the sky behind me. I turn around.
Behind me is an extraordinary sight: black
cumulonimbus clouds growing rapidly on
a deep purple sky. The tailwind is dry and
electric, the sky in front of me clear blue
with a thread of gold. It’s another monster
storm and once again I’m racing to make camp
before it hits. The birds around me suddenly
take flight as I pass on the dirt, the dry
38’39.7”E
gravel beneath my tyres crunching as I pick
up the pace and veer right to the campsite.
It’s a wide, open area encircled by teatrees
at the foot of the vegetated dunes and with
plenty of protection from the approaching
storm. The cricket’s on the radio as I set up
my tent and make dinner. I have the now-warm
beer from the fishos to go with my instant
curry and the sky to watch for entertainment.
As always, I’m the only person camped in the
area and it’s serenely quiet. The wind has
dropped off, but the heat of the day still sits
heavy in the air and the sky begins to light
up as the sun dips. I’m anticipating the storm
to hit at any moment, but it seems to skirt
the edges of the Coorong, the sky all around
me putting on a show. I’ve been given a
reprieve tonight, and my tent stays dry.
Me

C
H
APTER
T
W
E
N
TY
T
W
O
Kingston SE.
Cycling along the Kingston SE foreshore
I can’t help but be drawn to the Cape Jaffa
Lighthouse. Standing proudly on a block of
land, the imposing lighthouse is clearly
out-of-place. Kingston SE is a small crayfishing
town and the first settlement I’ve
passed through since leaving the shores of
Lake Albert five days earlier. Norfolk pines
line the foreshore, signifying the unofficial
beginning of the south-east of South Australia
and a series of small fishing and farming
towns situated on the Limestone Peninsula.
The coastline from here changes dramatically
from the Coorong with the beginning of a
series of calcarious platform reef systems.
Looking at the ocean in front of me today,
it’s hard to imagine that it holds treacherous
secrets. The sea surface is calm, electric cyan
and inviting. Ever since leaving the Coorong
earlier today, the weather has been friendlier.
Kingston SE marks the end of the long, gently
sloping beach, and the beginning of the rugged
waters and reefs. These reef systems spawn
nightmares for mariners and dreams for cray
fishers. The lighthouse on the foreshore is a
recent addition to the modest skyline, having
spent its first century as a sentinel looking
over the Margaret Brock Reef, eight kilometres
out to sea from Cape Jaffa. The reef, so named
after the wreck of the barque Margaret Brock
in 1852, had swallowed no less than six ships
before the lighthouse was finally erected.
The barque was abandoned with all passengers
and crew boarding long-boats and making for
land. A letter to the South Australian Register
described its last moments: ‘Captain
MacMeikan used all his efforts to get the
vessel off, but unfortunately his attempts
were fruitless, and when we left her she was
a total wreck, and the sea beating over her
with great violence.’ Their party of forty-four
then made the arduous walk to Salt Creek and
safety, a few of the strongest men going on
ahead, making the forty-six mile march to get
help. Only twelve years earlier the brigantine
Maria had been wrecked on the same reef and
You
36°50’09.5”S
all her twenty-six survivors were killed on
the Coorong attempting to walk to what was
then the small whaling port of Encounter
Bay, 150 kilometres west. Their deaths were
at the hands of the Ngarrindjeri some sixty
kilometres from the wreck site, though the
circumstances remain disputed.
These two wrecks were the catalyst for the
erection of the lighthouse, installed on the
reef over three years during fine weather,
a veritable feat of engineering and stamina.
The reef is pounded by open ocean swells
and storms and only knee deep at high tide.
It was replaced in the 1970s by a beacon and
moved to its current location in Kingston
SE. I camp at the caravan park next to the
magnificent structure, lit beautifully in
the evening light, its red paint deepened
by the red sunset, the clouds behind
glowing warm yellow.
After a coffee from the Old Wool Store, I make
the short ride to Robe the next day, taking the
coastal track as far as possible and past a sign
declaring BEWARE OF SNAKES. The summer sun
is beginning to hang in the sky a little longer
and is shining brilliantly overhead on my
arrival. The bay is a neon blue with no wind
disturbing it. There’s a small conservation
park on the edge of Robe where I’m aiming
to camp the night. The ride in is enchanting.
Only three or four kilometres out of town,
the Little Dip Conservation Park hosts
a couple of isolated beaches and remnant
bushland. I make my way down the winding
road, through a long bush tunnel, a canopy
through the landscape carved out originally
by surfers, until I reach a protected clearing
where I can camp. The beach is only another
500 metres down the track and only fifteen
minutes by bike from Robe. I’m tired and
sore and looking forward to a swim, so I
immediately make the decision to stay a
couple of nights. The beach at the end of
the road is beautiful: small coves, fine sand
with sea stacks and platform reefs abound
in a landscape reminiscent of the far west
coast of South Australia, though the water
colour is unique to the south east.
There’s an obelisk here in Robe that once
again provides a beacon to photographers and
tourists alike. Sitting cliff-top, overlooking
the entrance to the bay, it has provided a
navigational aid to ships since 1852, as they
pass and enter, steadfastly taking the brunt
of the southern ocean. The twelve metre
obelisk guards the entrance to Guichen Bay
Sea

You Me
139°50’45.8”E
and is still held in high esteem in the community,
their literal and metaphorical guardian
of the sea entrance to their town. Almost
two hundred years of wave and wind action
has eroded the cliff on which the obelisk sits,
now apparently in danger of collapse, taking
the structure slipping with it into the ocean.
I’m at the base of the cliff in the early
afternoon, trying to find a unique angle of
the oft-photographed limestone architecture.
I’ve found a small cave and managed to wriggle
my way in. Looking up, it’s an intimidating
angle, reminding me of the challenges faced
by mariners of days past. Waves hauling
themselves skyward against the cliffs for me
are photographic elements to be accentuated,
but to the floundering ship they would have
been terrifying. I spend the afternoon and
evening climbing along the cliff face. A lighthouse
has since been built nearby to give a
more reliable warning to mariners, but it’s
the obelisk which still sparks imagination
and romance. The sun sets behind it as I
enjoy the spectacle, a lone seal playing in
the small bay below, tourists dropping past
intermittently, the lighthouse warming up
in the distance as the light of the day falls
away. And still, towering plumes of whitewater
continue to pound the side of the
cliff, continuing the unrelenting onslaught
of natural forces.
I have a fifteen minute bike ride back to
my camp in the dark, up the sandhill at
the entrance of the park and back along the
now foreboding track. The bike sways in the
sand, my headlight barely illuminating my
tyres, let alone the track ahead. Sounds are
magnified as kangaroos watch me ride past,
and the ocean beats out a familiar song in
the distance. I’m acutely aware tonight of
how alone I am. Nothing has changed from
every other night on the journey, but tonight
I feel particularly vulnerable and I can’t
quite put my finger on why. It’s hot too, the
tent is humid and I wait for the storm on the
horizon to reach camp. I’ve been keeping an
eye on the weather all day, my daily ritual
whenever I’m in reception, and this storm
has been a long time coming. Days earlier my
radio had conveyed the tragic story of a young
couple struck by lightning as they camped
on the summit of Mount Warning, New South
Wales. The story plays over and over in my
head as I lie down in my tent for the night,
thunder claps on the horizon, the silence
between each clap smothering me. A sleepless
night lies ahead.
The following evening I head to the beach
to slide into the ocean before dark; there’s
nothing like the power of seawater to ease
a tired and sore body. Floating amongst the
waves after a few tough kilometres in the
saddle is restorative, and having my camera
with me allows me to explore that feeling
further. I’m alone on the beach, my eyes at
sea level. The last surfers have left the water,
finished their yarn in the carpark and left
me to shoot the evening as it blossoms in
all its colour. The swim has relaxed my body,
the time in the water focused on making
photographs has been productive, taking
my mind off the journey, the exhaustion
and fears. It is this meditative process
of photographing in-water that originally
attracted me to the sea surface. Time spent
concentrating on the small interactions
between light and water, wind and seascape,
is an interval beneficial to my psyche. Washing
off the stresses of life via photography has
been a revelation. I find myself swimming
with camera in hand more and more as an
antidote to the tumult of everyday life.
The work I was producing was the physical
manifestation of commonplace anxieties,
whilst concurrently healing those same
feelings. It was one of the motivations
behind the expedition I was now on, the
acknowledgement that I’m best when I was
being challenged physically and artistically.
There is no greater challenge than being
immersed in your subject, one that pushes
and pulls, kicks and holds you down, a fluid,
dynamic, organic subject that will never
pose for you, will never repeat a movement or
acquiesce to your demands. It will ignore you,
swallow you whole or spit you out; it will bury
you, embrace you or deface you. The surface
of the ocean has seduced humanity since
the dawn of time, and I’m here, no different,
watching the pastels melt into the sea,
waiting for swell lines to break the horizon,
waiting for the wind to drop, for the clouds
to break. I let the waves pass over me. The
rush of water and air is elemental. I’m at the
mercy of the ocean and it does not recognise
my presence. All the while I’m energising
my body and soul, preparing to get back
on the bike the next day to make some art.

Land
Sea
C
H
APTER
T
W
E
N
TY
T
HREE
Long Gully.
The tranquillity and colour of Guichen Bay
complemented by the craggy beast of the
southern-facing beaches mean it forms one of
South Australia’s more interesting landscapes,
offset by historic architecture. Couples
meander down Robe’s main street, families
play on the beach, and the town embraces
me with a siesta vibe as I walk its streets.
I spend one last night in Little Dip Conservation
Park, albeit on the other side of the
park. It’s only an hour’s ride out of Robe,
but far more isolated. I pull over to check
my map and Skype the girls before I lose
reception once again, leaning my bike up
against a paddock fence where a horse takes
an interest in my bike while I’m chatting
to Juno. She thinks it’s hilarious, and so do
I, until it takes my radio in its mouth, picks
it up from its spot on my front pannier, and
chews the aerial until it breaks off. My radio
is my entertainment, and when my batteries
on my phone and laptop die, I can rely on the
old wireless to keep me in the loop. I jump
the fence, but it’s too late.
Dunes meet the ocean here once again. A few
4WDs full of blokes pass by on their way out,
arms out the window, Bundy Rum cans in hand.
I arrive to an empty campground and make
my way to the beach. I can’t help but feel I’m
the only person to have walked on the beaches
for a few days. Small steep bays to my left and
right, coastal cliffs of dunes on either side,
a tumultuous ocean stretches out in front of
me to the horizon. The water colour once again
electric, the sky brooding. It’s warm and mid-
December and perfect weather for a swim. The
small bay is heavily vegetated, wildflowers
still in full bloom. The area is also home to
many wombats, and they join me at the campground
in the late afternoon light; so too does
a snake, slithering past my tent as I prepare
my equipment for the evening’s shoot.
I’m finally starting to get the light I chase.
It’s taken months, but the summer storm
lighting is delivering the drama and colour
37°15’
I desire. The first months of my journey had
been plagued by flat light. In between, I’ve
had some blue sky days with little cloud, but
overall the winter hasn’t produced the light
I crave. My reasoning behind taking to the
road in winter was one of light and one of
wind. Unfortunately, neither wind nor light
have cooperated so far, but this was beginning
to change as I reached the south east. The
evening light is now alive with colour, the
deep purple of the clouds is contrasted by
the low sun, orange light filtered by the salt
spray. The sea surface is rioting, sweeping
across the raised reefs, creating waterfalls as
the sea retreats between waves. I’m standing
on a cliff, looking south along a long beach,
watching the colour of the ocean change with
the light. Saturated oranges melt into muted
pastels, hard light to soft, brooding clouds
sitting heavy on the horizon, whitewater
exploding over sea stacks.
The beach I’m photographing tonight was the
beach where the body of lighthouse keeper
Edwin Blavins was washed ashore in 1966. He
was one of two lighthouse keepers stationed
at Cape Jaffa Lighthouse. The lighthouse
keepers were keen fishers and used their
daylight hours to fish from the lighthouse
boat. Sometime in the early afternoon on
March 8, 1966, they launched the boat from
the platform high above the surface of the
ocean and never returned. A Memorial to
Seafarers, Fishermen and Lightkeepers
talks of the fateful afternoon.
‘Around 1300 hrs, a fisherman named Max
Rothall was returning to Cape Jaffa and
stopped to pick up some pots he had set
on the south edge of the Margaret Brock Reef.
The sea was calm while he was at his pots,
but he observed a big wave come in and break
unexpectedly. It was a very close call and Max
considered himself very lucky to have avoided
the break. In his nine years of fishing the area
he had rarely seen a sea build up as quickly
in those conditions. He then headed for home
and used the passage at the lighthouse to come
inside the reef. Passing the lighthouse jetty
around 1330 hrs he noticed that the dinghy was
not there and that the crane hook was hanging
just clear of the water, the position it would
have been left in after the boat was lowered.
He became concerned for the lightkeepers
and looked about, but could see nothing of
the dinghy or the men. By this time the sea
was breaking heavily on the reef.’

Land
A large land and sea search was conducted at night, but also by their outline, size and
31.6”S
for five days until the dinghy turned up, colouring during the day.
overturned and empty, fishing line fouling
the propeller. Memorials were held for the I’m making good time now towards the border,
men on March 26 in Kingston SE. Coincidentally, the end of the gruelling journey coming to a
Edwin’s body would wash up on the beach the cadenza. Camping that evening, I worry about
same day as his memorial, forty kilometres tiger snakes in the long grass around my tent,
from the lighthouse. I’m witnessing similar something that in two or three nights will
conditions on the ocean surface this evening. be a distant memory. I’ve planned on going
I can understand how difficult it would be for a walk through the national park, but
to spot an upturned boat in the maelstrom, fall asleep in the afternoon. The exhaustion
particularly a small twelve-foot dinghy is now not going away with the fitful sleeps
painted white. Not for the first time on the I manage and food is no longer satisfying
coast do I consider how lucky I am not to be hunger. The towns are now so close together
facing these conditions at sea, rather turning that I’m not stopping for lunch, just punching
my camera lens towards the tempest in front out the kilometres in hopes of making the
of me to embrace the chaos.
distance in a session. I feel like I’m going
too fast to take it all in.
The following day the weather has improved
drastically, although the ocean still reels
from the most recent blow. Beachport, the
next in the series of small lobster fishing
towns, welcomes me in the afternoon. Boats
are safe in harbour by the time I arrive, a
light wind blowing on the electric blue water.
I grab a pizza for the night’s shoot, and catch
myself talking to myself out loud, and so does
the fisho next to me as we wait for our pizzas.
I’m so close now, only a few days away from
the border, no more having to talk to myself.
Beachport’s main street is host to a handful of
shops, the general store piping country music
onto the street. I jump on my bike and ride
the tourist drive along the cliffs, pizza in my
trailer, and for the second night running I’m
treated to a light show, the landscape fitting
the mood. I make Southend the next day, and
Carpenter’s Rock the day after that, perhaps
the smallest of the small crayfishing towns.
The ride into Port MacDonnell is a long one.
I want to check out Douglas Point Conservation
Park first which means doubling back on
the only road in. The sea stacks here are
remarkable, carved out by the rollicking
ocean, amateur cray-pot floats dot the
seascape. Shallow shelves give way to deep
crags, eroding cliff faces crawling with
life line the point, the swell relentlessly
pounding the base of the cliff. The water
colour is a deep blue surrounding the
fluorescent shallows of the kelp-covered
shelves. By the time I make Port MacDonnell,
it’s late in the afternoon and there’s a wind
blowing. It’s South Australia’s southernmost
town, the last in the line of crayfishing towns,
their fortunes made on the fruits of the sea. I
make the pub to charge my phone and call Myf.
I’m tired and she’s meant to be meeting me on
the border the next day, but Juno’s sick, and
they’re not going anywhere. I’m disappointed.
I’d prepared myself for finishing the following
day, prepared for a warm hug, a normal bed,
a warm meal and a cold beer. That’s not going
to happen now. I hang up and just as I do so
my phone rings again — it’s a Port Mac local
cray fisher named Jeremy. He’s seen me ride
past his house and offered me a bit of his
backyard and a meal. Someone along the way
has put him on to my journey and he’s been
following along. A father, artist and a surfer,
The shipwrecks along the coast continue, as
do the remote sandy beaches and limestone
cliffs. Some 706 ships have met their watery
grave along our coastline, many
139°47’
of them
on this stretch of coast. Robe was once the
second-busiest port after Port Adelaide,
servicing both South Australian and Victorian
wool farmers. I spend one evening standing
knee deep in the ocean looking at Carpenter’s
Rocks most famous shipwreck, the Pisces Star,
a sailing vessel wrecked in the shallows in he’d love to show me around with his family.
Canunda National Park. Its accessibility makes
it a tourist destination. It is overlooked by The next morning dawns windswept and
the magnificent Cape Banks Lighthouse, burnt the ocean a mess. It means Jeremy and his
orange with a white cap, a distinct sight son Kai won’t be out on the water checking
from the beach. While on the road, I learn the pots and neither will most of the fleet.
from the podcast Stuff You Should Know,
The cray season only lasts a few months,
that lighthouses are designed to be not only so it’s a mad scramble to make quotas in
recognisable via their unique flash pattern the available window.
Me

Calm days see the harbour empty out of all
the large cray boats, replaced by their small
tenders. The boats are usually back by early
afternoon, the crays still alive for transport
overseas. Today however, with no fishing on
the horizon I have a chance to sit down with
Jeremy and talk about his art practice. He
concentrates on surf art, heavily inspired by
the work of an American artist, Drew Brophy.
Jeremy paints with Posca Pens, his canvas
usually surfboards, occasionally skateboards,
and once or twice, articles of clothing.
His work is designed to be ridden, worn or
used. He paints in hyper-colour, exaggerated
subjects and cartoonish perfection, his work
connecting strongly to surf culture and
the natural environment. He picked up the
pen when he couldn’t find anyone locally to
custom-spray his surfboards. This was years
ago now, and he reckons he’s painted over a
hundred since then, occasionally spying them
in the lineup. Being a cray fisho allows him
ample time to work on his craft in his downtime,
continuing to push the limits of what
can be turned into a canvas. He takes me
upstairs in his house on the esplanade of
Port Mac where many boards are displayed
proudly. Vintage classics sit in the boardroom,
paired alongside his modern boards
painted in luminous landscapes.
Jeremy, with his wife Kirsty and their son
Kai, offer to take me on a tour of their town
in the afternoon, in particular to a series of
freshwater ponds only a few kilometres out
of Port MacDonnell. I’d heard about Ewen’s
Ponds before, but never had the chance to
visit them. A series of limestone sinkholes
surrounded by native vegetation, they don’t
look particularly unique from the surface.
It’s not until you slide under the surface
that the true magnificence of the ponds reveal
themselves. You float above an underwater
46.2”E
cathedral. The weather on the surface is
windy, drizzly and cold, but slip under the
surface and you’re transported to another
world, the water all-encompassing. What sun
there is, streams through the water, fingers
of light reaching all the way to the bottom,
nine metres below. I have never swum in
water with such clarity. It is breathtaking
in its beauty and literally breathtaking in
its temperature. The sinkhole is a world alien
yet familiar, an underwater garden lined
with flowing fields of green where freshwater
lobsters meander along the bottom, fish dart
among the reeds and, just above, swim scuba
divers. Each bigger than the last, the sinkholes
are connected by fast flowing streams.
I’m in my wetsuit with camera in hand as I
float through the sprawling ponds, the sound
of my breathing through a snorkel breaking
the silence. It is one of the most remarkable
landscapes on my tour, and I have only a day
left in the saddle.
Jeremy, Kai, Kirsty and I stand atop a cliff
only a kilometre from their house. A gothic
spire stands in front of us in the fading
afternoon light, resolutely facing the might
of the ocean. It is my last night on the road
and a fitting end to the journey that we sit
watching the interaction of land and sea. The
sounds we hear are some of the first sounds
on earth, unchanged for billions of years.
Waves crash against the limestone, birds
nestle in for the night, my camera shutter
is the only sound of humanity. The scene
continues today — as I sit in front of my
computer typing this — with or without me.
I pack down my tent, load my bike, pump
up my tyres, check my chain and put on
my helmet—a ritual I’ve done almost every
morning for the past 120-odd nights. But this
is the last time. I’m in Jeremy and Kirsty’s
backyard where I’ve spent the past two
evenings. The boys have headed out to sea for
the day, the ocean a little friendlier. I have
a short ride to the border where my girls
wait. A herd of horses runs alongside as I
keep a steady pace, their hooves creating a
thunderous soundscape. A little further down
the road, a dog runs out to join me, keeping
up for a few hundred metres and finally a
quad-motorbike pulls up. The rider gives
me a nod before opening her up and driving
off on two wheels—a modern-day, twenty-one
gun salute. My panniers are now empty of
food, I carry only a little water and my bike
is riding on rails. My trailer has somehow
survived, the rear wheel a sorry sight for
the past thousand kilometres, sagging at an
unhealthy angle as I’ve dragged it across the
landscape. A few kilometres out my friend and
photographer Nat Rogers meets me. She’s here
to record my last day in the saddle. I think
back to the landscape of my first day in the
saddle, months ago now. The scene around
me now bears no resemblance to the roads of
the far west coast, the smells are unfamiliar,
and the sky seems smaller as I pass over the
Glenelg River. I’m home, I’ve made it, I’m
finished. I let out a hoot, it’s one of relief.
Sea
You

15 February 2017
Kangaroo Island
35°55’42.8”S 137°36’01.6”E

Land Sea You Me

E
PIL
O
G
UE
Me
Backstairs Passage
35°40’35.3”S 137°59’52.5”E

Land
It’s been a long time since I’ve been in the saddle.
I managed to land a good couple of rides whilst in Yass, but my
time has been taken up writing this book. Throughout the journey
and writing process, it has become apparent that there’s a glaring
hole in the story of South Australia and LAND SEA YOU ME. Kangaroo
Island marks our first European settlement in South Australia,
and sits off the coast of the Fleurieu. There’s 500 more kilometres
of coast to see and experience, except this time around I won’t be
alone. Myf is now twenty weeks pregnant and I’ve had enough time
on the road alone, so she and Juno join me as we cross Backstairs
Passage on the ferry. It’s early afternoon and perfect conditions
for Juno’s first boat ride and she’s excited by it all. We sit on
the bow together as we cross, watching the island come into focus,
gently rolling across the calm waters. We plan to camp at a spot
that evening in Antechamber Bay, not too far from where we
disembark at Penneshaw. It’s good to be back on the island and
even better to be back in the saddle with my girls. The sounds
of my tyres on the island’s gravel roads immediately bring back
memories from six weeks earlier. We set up camp on the banks
of the Chapman River and head over the dunes for a swim on the
beach, looking back across to the mainland. I can make out the
valley ending in Blowhole Beach in Deep Creek Conservation Park,
where I stood two months earlier looking back at Kangaroo Island.
I was tired, sore and lonely then, feeling very much like I should
be with Myf in the first months of her pregnancy. I had just spent
a couple of days with the girls as I passed through Moana and
being back on the road while Myf was raising a toddler and dealing
with a pregnancy, made me feel selfish and helpless, that I wasn’t
pulling my weight. Now two months later, standing only seventeen
kilometres across the ocean from where I was at my loneliest,
was a very different experience. Together again as a family, it’s
a joy watching my girls play in the iridescent water, Myf’s belly
beginning to show and Juno loving being on another adventure
with her parents. Despite her episodes on the road, she has
thankfully never lost her sense of adventure.
Sea You
The sun sets as we cook, camped amongst a melalueca forest once
again, superb fairy wrens hopping around camp in search for
insects. Having Myf and Juno there meant I can ride without all
my equipment, taking only what I need for the day — camera gear,
water and a meal or two. I prepare my gear after Juno is down for
the night and take in the sounds of being back in the bush, under
the night sky, Myf beside me in her chair. The last time we were
here on the island, Myf was pregnant with Juniper; it felt right
to be back on the road together.

Land
Sea
The island was formed sometime over the last 10,000 years as sea
levels rose after the last ice age. Like so many islands separated
for many millennia, Kangaroo Island is home to many endemic
species of flora and fauna, and indeed, its western side has
perhaps the most significant plant biodiversity in South
Australia. The island has a long history of Aboriginal occupation,
referred to as the ‘Island of the Dead’ by tribes of southern
Australia. When I flew around Pearson Island months ago, I was
reminded of KI, with its isolation and fauna, its gurgling oceans
and sheer landscape. I ride along its rutted roads, slowly making
my way along the coast, past the lighthouses and hidden coves.
The southern side of the island faces Antarctica and the brunt
of swell, winds and weather. I’m lucky to find perfect summer
shorts-and-t-shirt weather as I ride, with blue skies and little
wind. I swim after lunch in the pristine waters of Pennington
Bay, the crystal clear waters washing the salt off my body, and
lie on my back, floating with the slowly rolling waves. I move
clockwise around the island, visiting the many National Parks
along the southern coast, treated to light shows at the end of
each day. The afternoon light here is unique to the island, sea
mist filtering the low sun. The softest red glow wraps itself
around the landscape while huge swells bury boulders in whitewater.
It is a dynamic part of our world.
A clear night gives me the opportunity to photograph the
Remarkable Rocks beneath the stars as kangaroos scratch in the
foliage around me in the dark. The sculptures sit on their plinth,
zaggressive in form, tumbling away with the winds. I stand
there, my camera on its tripod, making photographs as the Milky
Way sets over the ocean. The feelings of once again being alone
in the South Australian landscape are different now that I know
my girls are back at camp, safe in my tent. The night air is warm,
the smell of the ocean is comforting. It is a special place to
stand, an ancient landscape, overseen by an ancient night sky.
I’m chased by foul weather as I leave the Flinders Chase National
Park the next morning heading north, rain and wind nipping at my
heels. I pass little traffic as I make my way to Western River Cove,
the last six kilometres downhill, dirt damp under my now-bald
tyres. Eagles fly high above as the vista sweeps below. It’s humid
and the rain continues as we set up camp, but the evening light
looks promising. I have the whole beach to myself. As I look out
to sea, a pod of dolphins enters the bay, and a rainbow begins to
sprout from the tumbling ocean. I swim in the shallows to cool
down as thunder rumbles in the distance. I think back to all the

You
beaches I’ve stood on over the past eight months, all the waters
I’ve swam in, all the waves I’ve seen on the ocean and in the sand.
All the cuts, bruises, heat and cold, all the flat tyres, all the
headwinds, hills, mud, sand, flies, mozzies and midges, snakes …
and disappointing meals. As I lie here on the ocean surface, waves
rolling under me in the most beautiful cove imaginable, it was
all worth it. Tomorrow I’ll once again be cursing the road, but
for now I let the calmness of the ocean embrace me.
There’s an artist living on Kangaroo Island whose work is literally
formed by the landscape. Myf, Juno and I meet Janine Mackintosh
in her studio. Janine is both an artist who creates contemporary
assemblages and a photographer. We’re welcomed into her studio
that is dripping in found objects, jars of sea creatures and
feathers, gum nuts, leaves, shells and bones. A copperhead snake
looks out of a jar, swimming in alcohol; sea urchin bunting is
strung across the roof. Janine creates intricate works, striking
in their simplicity and uniqueness. They have a depth and
reverence of the landscape about them, an inherent patience
in the medium and message. I’ve been mesmerised by Janine’s
work ever since seeing it on the island on a surf trip many years
ago. Her work is now found on gallery walls around the world,
little bits of our land gracing walls in living rooms, libraries,
hotels and private collections. Janine’s work embodies both
natural history and art, impossible to separate from the landscape
in which she lives. The patterns in nature I’ve witnessed
along my journey are writ large on canvasses in Janine’s studio.
Waves in the sand become waves of leaves, footprints in the dunes
become shells across a canvas. She’s currently working on a piece
using brilliant bright red gum from the yakka, the ‘blood of
the bush’. Baskets of sheep bones stained red sit in her studio,
dripping in colour. Her work is instantly recognisable, repetition
en masse, often working with leaves from native plants, mandalas
of detritus. We spend an hour in Janine’s space. Juno rumbles
amongst the objects washed ashore on the beaches of the island:
floats, buoys, bones. Janine talks of the inspiration she finds in
the landscape, both literal and metaphoric and, like me, she hopes
to bring environmental issues to the forefront through her work,
but, for her, through a wildly different medium. We talk of the
biodiversity of the island; there are over a hundred species of
flora on her property alone, many found only on the island. As I go
to leave, I take a sheep skull in my hands. Glistening red in yakka
gum, it looks almost wet, the marriage of evolution, life, death
and contemporary art, of weather and humanity.
Me

Land
Sea
The shores of D’Estrees Bay shelters us for the night. A light wind
turns into a light gale, one final snake slithers past our camp
as we make dinner. For the second time, it is my last night on
my journey. We had two beginnings, and now we have two endings.
Juno loves her time on KI. She brings a bag of jetsam home with
her, combed from the sweeping beaches. She once again loves
sleeping between Myf and me, squashed in the tent. She reminds
me of nocturnal visits by possums, of walking past wallabies to
go to the toilet, of seals drinking mother’s milk, of eagles soaring
and geese honking, kookaburras laughing and wombats burrowing,
of waves crashing and winds blowing, of whales breaching and
ships sinking, of suns rising and moons setting, of thunder
clapping and lightning crashing. I smile at the thought of how
far we’ve come. I’ve walked on beaches where no footprints
exist, I’ve ridden over tracks overgrown for years, I’ve heard
the tree fall in the woods. I’ve been shown the beauty of the
South Australian land, the sea and her people. I’ve fallen,
I’ve flown and I’ve dived. I’ve bled, smiled, laughed and cried.
Our boat leaves for the mainland and the official end of LAND SEA
YOU ME at sunset. Until then, I soak up the sea air, my camera
soaks up the summer light, harsh and overhead.
Me

Land Sea You Me
Would not have been possible without the
extraordinary support of the following people.
Don & Jan Chorley
Negaya Chorley
Gus Mclean
Beau Mclean
Ayla Chorley
Andrew Senyard
Alan & Robyn Cadwallader
Jess Cadwallader
Maria Neilson Due
Ameyali Cadwallader Due
Daniel Cadwallader
Penolope Leishman
Flynn Cadwallader
Demelza Cadwallader
Paul O’Connor
The Centre for
Creative Photography
Jade Norwood
Anthony Sykala
Sarah Porcelli
Radek Kochanowski
Mike Trewartha
Joshua Kane Wood
Sarah Cullen
Blencowe Family
Arlyn Gamache
Travis Gilbert
Megan Crabb
Sam Cooper
Emma Cother
Anne Rhodes
Ash & Sam Baghurst
Simon Callaghan
Brendan Rose
The Analogue Laboratory
Sonia Mir
Ross McNaughtan
Vlad Vexler
Andrew Houey
Nicholas & Kate Croucher
Kate & Mark Blencowe
Tony Kearney
Nat Rogers & Michael Reid
Backporch Theatre
Brendan Hinton
Chris Menadue
Michael Treloar
Mike Lim
Elissa & Jeremy Downey
Bradley Coleman
Rosalie Brady
Ken Cahill
Ashley Playfair
John & Tanis Blines
Jerome Kirkwood
Diane Ranck
Jaya Suartika
Wilkins & James family
Cheryl Deed
Paul Myers
Claire Taylor
Judy King & Alan Mayne
Simon Dighton
Mark Kimber
Mickey Newport
Henry Jock Walker
Corey Buchan
Joel Bates
Emma Martin
Jeremy Ievins
Kirsty Ievins
Kai Ievins
Dirk Holman
Jessica Wilson
Chris & John Dighton
Chris Bell
Andrew & Sarena Edwards
Lachy Toogood
Philip Henschke
John & Kirsty Andersen
Haneen Martin
Boordo
Cobby
Richo, Fee & Family
Fowlers Bay Eco Caravan Park
Jason Swales
Janine Mackintosh
Mark Davison
Steve’s Place Robe
Heydar van Veen
Peter & Val
Leigh & Julie
Ngahuia Trewartha
Thomas Sereika
Frances Smith
Craig Francis
Lisa Morgan
The Mill Residents
Clayton Cruse
Geoff Rogers
Jim & Amelia Smith
Marie Spagnoletti
DESIGN
Voice®
Email: info@voicedesign.net
www.voicedesign.net
EDITORS
Alan & Robyn Cadwallader
PRINTING BY FINSBURY GREEN
Printed by a carbon neutral
process using world’s best
practice ISO 14001 Environment
Management Systems.
PAPER BY SPICERS
Cover:
Stephen Cobalt Blue 360gsm
Stephen Pitch Brown 360gsm
Text:
Stephen Acqua Blue 120gsm
Pacesetter Satin 170gsm
Stephen Verdigris Green 120gsm
You

Land Sea You Me
Thanks the following sponsors for their support,
dedication and confidence in the project. It has
been an honour to have you as my tail wind.
©CHE CHORLEY 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilised in any form or
by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying and recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing by the publisher.

Marion Bay. Foul Bay.
Edithburgh. Port Vincent.
Ardrossan. Tiddy Widdy Beach.
Price. Port Wakefield.
Port Adelaide. Adelaide.
Moana. Port Willunga.
Myponga Beach. Carrickalinga.
Normanville. Second Valley.
Rapid Bay. Deep Creek.
Waitpinga. Victor Harbor.
Port Elliot. Goolwa. Milang.
Wellington. Meningie.
Parnka Point. Salt Creek.
Kingston SE. Robe.
Nora Creina. Beachport.
Southend. Blackfellows Caves.
Cape Douglas. Port MacDonnell.
Nelson. Penneshaw.
Antechamber Bay.
D’Estrees Bay. Flinders Chase.
Western River Cove. Stokes Bay.