Monthly Archives: December 2014

Danny and I dived for forty minutes that day, and collected rubbish that had been strewn into the sea.

First mission of the day; collect fisherman’s dropped knife. This was essential, in order to avoid any potential Alf Stewart-esque situtions; “I need my knife, ya flamin’ galahs!”

Second challenge; retrieve drunken young man’s deck chair. (Don’t even ask.) And don’t get me started on the bike.

Then we found a wheelie bin. It was somewhat ironic. (Not to mention I got quite a fright from the looming black shape as it appeared.) Not just that, but the rubbish was more natural than I would care to believe. A tiny blue-ringed octopus, perfect in its flashing neon complexity, living in a bottle. Us at a loss to remove its home from the system. The vast quantity of objects borne on tides to gather. Enough lures and fishing line tangled amongst the rocks and weed to stock a tackle shop. I counted on two hands the things that didn’t belong. From things carelessly dropped from the wharf, to things that had no doubt travelled miles on tides and currents. Beer bottle; brick; plastic wrapper; caterpillar treads, to name a few. And some of these things will become a part of the ocean. The bottle is a home. The treads are relics. The brick, artificial reef stock. And creatures adapt.

But not all of the rubbish assimilates in this way. A plastic wrapper looks like a jellyfish. Turtles eat jellyfish.

End of story.

So, there we were, Merimbula Main Beach, hand in hand, watching the dog attempt to dig to China and vying for more attention by trying to get between us. Watching as the peach tones of the sunset fell over the twinkling start-up lights of Pambula. Seeing the colour of the sky turn the sea to a rose hue, while holiday makes made the most of the last light.

What happened next was simply un-Australian.

Someone. Stole. Our. Thongs.

Kidnapped from their safe nest at the top of the path where gravel turns to soft sand, where thongs are designed to be kicked off and added to a colourful melee of cheap rubber. Gone. An assault on the etiquette of coastal living!

So with stubbed toes and gravel indented feet, we hobbled to the car. Incredulous that this could happen! Floored it from the parking lot, driving through Fishpen, necks craning and leering at any couple whose feet vaguely resembled the size of our own. Judgmentally focusing on the occupants of parked Wicked campers. When actually anyone was fair game.

How could this happen? My feet had indented those thongs over years of wear, like a fingerprint! Like memory foam! Only my feet could fit those grooves. A veritable salty-haired, sand-blown Cinderella.

And then, ‘Babe, I don’t mean to alarm you, but we are about to run out of petrol.’ Evidently the day could get worse.

But in a somewhat romantic/apologetic gesture, ‘the man’ bought me a new pair of thongs. But they will never be the same. For they will take years to break in.

So, guard your thongs this Summer, people. Or padlock them to the fence at the top of the beach path. This is not extreme behaviour, as the world is changing, and a good pair of thongs are worth their flimsy weight in gold.

 

This week we had five inches of rain in a short time on the South Coast. Flash-flooding coursed down the river and by the next day, a slowly creeping swathe of brown water was heading down the coast. Vis turned to zero. Strange debris floated past. It was a divers nightmare, though the big swells made the surfers smile.

(Photo by Tori Davies, Surfers, City Beach, Wollongong, Aus.)

Bananas are banned on boats. For new divers, this can be an embarrassing lesson to learn. Bananas are a healthy snack of choice, so it is all too easy to just chuck one in your pack for later.

But no, imagine the look of fear and horror on my fellow divers’ faces, and the captain – visibly shaking, when I produced my between-dive-snack and began to peel that mother. Then I saw the sign, a little yellow banana with a red line through it, much like a ‘no-smoking’ sign but obviously much more detrimental to your health…

There are many superstitions relating to bananas on boats, dating back centuries. The story told to me (amid frantic headcounts and with darting eyes) was that trade-ships that sunk were left with only the bananas floating in their place. Of these flotillas, the only ones to sink in the storm were the ones with bananas on board.

Further research revealed a more likely scenario, of venomous spiders hiding amongst the banana cargo, which inevitably made their way out of the hold and poisoned the crew by biting them. Yet bananas in any form can anger the Sea Gods. Banana bread, logos on sunscreen (maybe even wearing a yellow outfit with a black hat… who knows?), even saying the word is frowned upon.

These days, bananas can be deemed responsible for many events. Fish going off the bite, seeing a shark, or a random storm whipping up will generally entice the captain to check bags and toss the offending fruit overboard. For them to take this so seriously is testimony to every fiction being based on fact. Though the times of extreme superstitious behaviour has now long passed, no one in ready to change the game. It’s safer that way. I know I now believe in the myth, because when that yellow devil was ripped from my hand that day, the sun went behind a cloud, a cool wind swung from the north, and a bird screeched overhead that sounded like a soul in hell…