Dirk Hartog Island, July 2016 (Part 1)

In July 2016 we stayed on remote Dirk Hartog Island for 2 weeks. It was one of the best holidays I have had: there was no need to go anywhere, no pressure to do anything, few people about and a beautiful location.

When I was a child my family used to stay at Garden Island, just off the Western Australian coast near Perth. We lived an idyllic life there (for us, not so much for my parents I'm sure) with no running water, no electricity, no shops, no traffic. We had to be self sufficient which meant bringing all necessities except water with us. On the island we stayed at the family shack which had a rainwater tank, gas cooking and lighting and a kerosene fridge. Going to DHI would almost be the same as going to Garden Island (minus the shack, rainwater tank and kero fridge!).

After months of planning and getting our vehicles ready we set off.  Our meal roster was planned to ensure we had more than enough food. We were hoping that there would be lots of fish on the menu, but had back up food in case we didn't. My hubby installed drawers and storage space in our Nissan Patrol ute so that every thing fitted in snuggly for what knew would be a rough trip into Steep Point and then out to our campsite on the island. We had 2 Engels on board - 1 as a fridge and 1 as a freezer, we had 160 litres of potable water in 2 caravan water tanks on the top of our rig and 30 litres of drinking water in 5 litre containers on board. Hubby also took a number of cordless tools including a cordless angle grinder which was put to good use cutting star pickets into heavy duty tent pegs following a major storm.

Our first stop was at a bed & breakfast place in Northampton. The owners were quirky, to put in politely, and the place was quaint, to also put it politely. We found out we were sharing our accommodation with another family, including the multi-access bathroom. The next morning the other family left early whilst the owners fed us an enormous breakfast and tried to entice us into staying a while longer but we had a long day's travel ahead so couldn't stay.

The trip to Steep Point went relatively easily. We easily drove up the first long sand dune after the track and admired the view while we waited for our mates to catch us up. After that it was a case of taking it slow and steady.

That evening we made camp at Steep Point in preparation for the barge trip across to the island the next morning. After a hard days travelling I went for my one and only swim on the trip - the water was freezing but refreshing. We set up a bare minimum camp and ate a prepared meal. What we didn't realise was that Steep Point is actually sand fly city and nearly everyone (except for me - yay!) discovered over the next day or so that the little blighters had feasted on them. The night was perfectly still and we could clearly see our destination across the channel.

Looking at Dirk Hartog Island from Steep Point

The next morning we thought that we were on the 10am barge but, as is often the case in the country, the timing was a bit elastic. As we were enjoying our breakfast we noticed the barge travelling across the channel. Cue frantic packing up, with our friends managing to pack just as the barge arrived. They drove on and off they went. Little did we know that their exit from the barge was to be slightly more dramatic than the loading. Unfortunately a high tide meant that their trailer jackknifed when it hit the soft sand and they basically had to back off the barge into the ocean and drive out onto the beach. Needless to say it was extremely stressful for them. We were travelling in a single vehicle and, fortunately, didn't have any problem loading on to or exiting from the barge.

Dirk Hartog Island Barge

When were all off the barge we set off for Louisa Bay, our home for the next 2 weeks.  The trip to LB (about 48 km) took approximately 3 hours and was a mixture of tracks and sand dunes.  At one point we were following tracks which disappered into the high tide lapping at the base of the dune but which we had to follow in order to reach firm ground again. With our thin tires and weight it was a tense few minutes. Thankfully we didn't get bogged.

When we reached Louisa Bay a stiff wind had sprung up and so setting up camp was a bit challenging. We set up camp about halfway along the bay in the protection of the cliffs behind. As the sun sank we moved into evening mode - having a few beverages and putting layers of thermals on to ward off the cold.

Louisa Bay looking south

Louisa Bay looking north

The next day was a day of rest as we relaxed and recovered from the travelling and setup we'd done. It was still very windy but the skies were sunny and clear.  The boys set off for their first fishing trip and were successful - we had a Taylor entree before dinner.

On Tuesday the weather had deteriorated - blue skies were replaced with grey clouds and the wind had stepped up. That afternoon the weather turned stormy and we holed up in our annex as we waited for the storm to pass.

Wednesday morning was beautiful and so the boys went out in the boats and I went for walk with my friend to Louisa Bay's southern headland.  That afternoon we saw a huge school of fish being divebombed by birds. We think the fish may have congregated in the berley trail the boys left during their fishing.

Dawn on Thursday was very red. Unfortunately we didn't heed the sign from the sailor's rhyme "Red sky at night,sailors delight, Red sky at morning, sailors take warning" and take time to make sure our camp was put up correctly and properly secured.  However the day was beautiful, so nice in fact that I thought I'd go for a swim but the water was frigid and I just sun bathed.

That afternoon the glorious weather continued so we drove north to Sandy Bay, stopping off at the old shearing camp for a look. As evening closed in the wind sprang up and a heavy dew settled early. It is amazing how, when you're living so close to nature, you begin to be able to read the signs - if only I'd realised the heavy dew was a sign of bad weather on the way.

During the late afternoon the weather changed rapidly. By early evening it had started squalling so we had dinner in our friend's annex and then went bed. By this time the wind was starting to get very gusty with my end of the tent collapsing in and my bedding getting wet (we discovered later the fly had not been properly set up). As the wind got stronger and showers moved through more quickly I retreated to my hubby's swag. By this time we could hear our friends shouting at each other over the wind so we got up to find that their annex was collapsing and they'd had major water ingress into their sleeping areas. We took an hour or so to help them to secure the annex.

By this stage the storm was raging so we retreated to sleep in the back our vehicle - not very comfortable but safe! At about 3am the storm had passed and nature was calling so I slid out of the Patrol. Our toilet tent had been blown off it's foundations and was hanging by one guy rope. I didn't let that stop me! We then went back to bed in our tent for a few hours.

Next morning we were all slightly shell shocked and very tired.A cooked breakfast and coffee helped us to deal with the aftermath - pegging everything down more firmly, setting the tent up properly and drying out soggy bits and pieces.  Following the storm the dew was extremely heavy so it took a long while before everything was dry.

Mourning my loss of womanhood

Next Friday I'm having a hysterectomy. It's not unexpected, I've had a few issues and we're hoping that removing my womb will sort those issues. I've been through menopause, so I'm not going to have hormone replacement therapy to deal with the loss of hormones.

I have a complicated relationship with my womb. Due to a genetic issue I have a unicornate womb - it's only half a womb. And I only have one ovary. I've often joked that I'm only half a woman, and attributed my love of rugby union, car stuff and beer to my missing half! I hate think how much worse my periods would have been if I'd had the whole thing!

Because of my issues I couldn't have children, so my womb has never really been used as it was intended. Dont get me wrong, I'm sad but not devastated that I couldn't have children, but I am still mourning the imminent loss of my womb and, potentially, my only ovary (my surgeon has said he will try to save it but he's not super confident). They signify to me that I am a woman. Without them what do I become? (I understand that my chromosomes actually make me a woman, but it seems that actually having the kit is also a big signifier for me.)

I'm not sure my husband understands why I'm so tense and snappy at present. I told him it's the same as if he was having his testicles removed.

So next Friday looms large. I'm not looking forward to the possible pain that will follow this surgery, but I am looking forward to not having to worry about how my womb issues are affecting other parts of my body.

On not having had children

Last night I watched the first episode in the  documentary/reality series "Keeping Australia Live". The series focuses on healthcare in Australia and how it impacts our lives. One of the stories in the episode followed a couple who were trying, as many do, to have a child but the only way that was going to happen was through IVF.  During the episode the woman was told her IVF treatment had failed. Her grief was overwhelming, you could almost see her slumping to the floor based on the jagged crying and denials that were issuing from the phone. The IVF specialist delivering the bad news obviously felt for her.

This despair was balanced out by another story following a mother of 3, who had decided to donate her eggs so that another woman could have the chance to become a mother. Her altruistic gesture was one of generosity and from a place where she had children and wanted another woman to be able to experience what she had. She too, cried. Possibly tears of grief for the children she was giving up, or overwhelming feelings of sadness for the woman who's only hope was to receive an egg from another woman.

I met my husband when I was on the cusp of 30. He took a year to move to the state I live in and then 2 years to propose and then another year to organise the wedding and get married so by the time we were in a position to start trying to have children I was 34.  Then we tried for a couple of years with no result. At 37 we found out that we couldn't have children. It wasn't a huge surprise - I have "issues" and it was always going to be a challenge for me to carry a baby to full term. But when the specialist said (after the investigation) "your insides are a mess" well that was it. We could have had surgery to try and fix some of the problems but there was no guarantee that would work.

To be honest I've never had an overwhelming desire to have children, but to not have the option at all was tough. We told all our friends and family so they didn't have to wonder. The first time I went into a baby shop, after getting our news, to buy a good friend a special gift for her first born was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. As was hearing from friends and family they were pregnant - a mix of joy for them and envy as well. Holding a baby for the first time was  quick "let's get this over with" process (I could cuddle them for hours now). As a frustrated dancer I would have loved to have been a dance mum! Or to have a son who, potentially, could have played rugby (union, of course) for Australia!

But there is an upside. My husband has stood by me (I did give him the option of leaving). As time as passed we've discovered that he also has "issues" and our combined issues could have made life interesting for any children we had. We love watching our nieces, nephews and friends children developing in to beautiful young men and women. We are able to act as a safe haven for them and their parents.

So, to the woman trying to have a baby I hope you succeed, but I also hope you can choose when enough is enough. And that you can embrace your childfree life. You will mourn the children you could never had but don't let it define you, because children grow up to become adults and move on to their own lives, sometimes leaving you alone. (One of my ongoing sources of anxiety is who will look out for me as I age as I now look out for my own parents.)

Going with flow

We had to travel interstate for a funeral recently. The funeral was on the Sunday of a long weekend so that was good, only 1 work day would be lost. Or so we thought.

The rain fell solidly for the first three days of our trip. On the day of funeral we woke early (we were staying on a farm some distance from the city where the funeral was to be), and decided to drive around to see what was happening. One crossing, over a creek that flows from town, was already cut and it was only 6.30am. We decided to drive to town to see what was happening and, not unsurprisingly, there was water over the road at the only exit out of town. Quickly driving home we packed and left with minimal goodbyes, which felt wrong. If we'd left half an hour later I doubt we would have been able to get through town and make it to the city.

The weather that day was appalling. As our good friend said in his eulogy for his father "it felt like nature was screaming". People had travelled from interstate to be at the funeral and were unable to make it from the capital up to the inland city. We knew we couldn't make it back to the farm, so booked into a hotel.

That evening we went to a fabulous Turkish restaurant for dinner - possibly the only restaurant open in the city on that wild Sunday night. We toasted our friend and ate delicious food. Returning to our hotel we were told there was no power. The power didn't come on at all that night so, after a restless night, we got up early and headed back through thick fog to the farm.

We were meant to be heading home the next day, but we already knew we couldn't make it back to the airport. Flights were changed (someone was looking after us - I'd purchased fully flexible fares so no cost to change), car hire extended and we waited out the deluge. Come Tuesday morning we did a bit of a drive around looking at the swollen creeks, marvelling at the power of nature.

It was a weird break. We were sad that we had to attend a funeral, but looking forward to spending time with family, all tempered with anxiety about the weather. Not relaxing. Our sleep patterns were all over the place - going to bed early, waking early. Perhaps the greyness made our bodies think it was winter?

Sponteneity

This morning I had several chores needing to be accomplished - buy a new dress for a funeral we're going to, buy sandals to match the dress, buy a birthday gift for my sister in law. I'd achieved the first two and was heading off to begin the third when I bumped into the children of a friend of mine. Their mother was in the Apple store trying to get her computer woes sorted.  Knowing my friend I thought this could take some time (she seems to have ongoing computer woes that mystify me, but some people have that sort of relationship with technology!)

As an aside, on the way back to the store, when we were agreeing that technology and my friend don't mesh well her kids helpfully told me that she had once gone to the Apple store because her phone wasn't ringing. The Apple people told her that her phone was set on silent. I wasn't surprised by this. I don't think her kids were, either. Oh, and my friend is also blonde!

We rocked up and she was on the Apple store phone getting help from someone somewhere in the world. I'd already asked the kids if they'd had morning tea (no!) and neither had I. So I suggested that I whisk the kids off for morning tea - giving her peace of mind and allow her concentrate on trying to get her technology woes sorted.

The kids, knowing I'm a soft touch, had milkshakes and shared a caramel slice. I had coffee and orange and almond cake (that old standby for the wheat intolerant). And we chatted and chatted and chatted! It was lovely!  They're 8 and 12.  I've known them since before birth. Births which were hard won (their poor father underwent surgery in order to make it possible to have them). One of my treasured memories is standing over the crib of the eldest when she was days old, looking at this gorgeous baby my wonderful friends had created.

They are growing into lovely young people - full of life and optimism. I hope we have more spontaneous get togethers in our futures!

Vale Barry

We received one of those phone calls today. The conversation quickly went from cheery hellos (on our end) to "Oh no" to "I'm so sorry" to "When's the funeral". I was listening in from the kitchen and my heart sank. All sorts of scenarios were unfolding in my head. The reality was that the father of my husband's best mate had passed. He had cancer, so his death wasn't unexpected, but it was sooner than anyone had anticipated.

We're both deeply saddened.  He was a good man. An environmental advocate, an outstanding natural athlete, a man of integrity. His recent passion had been damselflies - collecting, identifying and learning about them. He and his wife had travelled the world, raised three gorgeous daughters and a son and had a gaggle of grand kids.

So, instead of kicking back enjoying the Australia Day break with friends, we're heading off for a celebration of a different kind.  On the upside we will get to spend precious time with my husband's family - his father begins treatment for cancer the morning we leave. I fear this is not the last cancer-related funeral we will be attending this year.

Supporting your friends

I was talking with friend today about attending the funeral of a mutual friend's mother. The friend I was speaking with was amazed that I'd attend a funeral of someone I'd never met. Whilst I had actually met my friend's mother once, many years ago for about 30 seconds, I'm attending the funeral to show my friend that I care about her, and want to support at this time.

Other than sending a card, an email, flowers or calling, I don't know what else I would do to show my friends that I want to offer them respect and condolences at such a difficult time. I'm also interested to hear about this woman's life.

My friend's mother was a respected potter. The National Gallery has pieces of her work in their collection. I have a piece of hers (given as a gift to me years ago). Years ago I went to the last exhibition my friends mother held. Her work was the type that appealed to me - delicate but robust, gorgeous glazes. refined. You could see the confidence of the craftswomen as she had formed the clay.