beach

My good woman tells me to drag her out of bed at six for an early morning cliff-top walk along the escarpments of Katoomba and Leura in the Blue Mountains. We must quit our villa at ten thirty. She’s not a morning person and it takes till seven to get her out and functional enough to walk.

We stop at every lookout, descend the Giant’s Staircase, look down at the wheeling white cockatoos, circling then plunging into the canopy below the cliffs. The tourists won’t be here for a while yet. We feel like locals with our villa 100 metres from the viewing deck.

The Caddy loaded once more, we roll down the drive, cut across to Leura, buy an elegant yellow tote bag for my good woman, a red belt for me. All morning and into the afternoon as we circle Sydney’s northwest, wind our way to Wisemans Ferry, punt across the Hawkesbury, my good woman slides her new bag out of its protective cover, admires its lines, feels its texture.

From Wisemans Ferry it’s 55kms of rough road along the Hawkesbury before joining the Pacific Highway, skirting Newcastle, turning off for the northern side of Port Stephens. Some time around five we roll into the forecourt of the resort we have cut-price coupons for. Will that mean a cut-price room?

It’s not a flash room, a hike from the car, up a set of stairs, no view, dank stagnant air. My good woman slides the windows open. Her face speaks to her disappointment, her silence tells me everything. She’s out the door and off to see the beach without unpacking.

The afternoon turns grey, the sea leaden to match. It pounds down thirty metres from shore, runs silently up the hard beach. Low tide turns the beach into a road.

We make for the point, a steep mound at the end of a long spit between the ocean and Port Stephens proper round the corner. At its narrowest the spit is all sand, low dunes, coastal scrub. We wander in, sink to our ankles in the fine silky grains. Progress is treacly.

Back on the littoral my good woman turns shells, picks up the more colourful, checks their intactness, pockets them. The flying salt mists my glasses, glazes my forehead.

We are here: the beach.

Rock on.