They assemble and wait, young children in anticipation, and adolescents’ half in anticipation and half holding poses showcasing summer. Sometimes they are solitary jumpers and sometimes lingering in groups. Adults are in a minority, often assigned the role of lifeguards.
The pool will soon fill, and plunging resumes. A rising tide stirs the locals.
The pool is formed by Devonian granite, hard as nails and silent, capable of sharing generations of stories but refusing to break confidence. The rocks rarely change, only to provide additional accommodation for shells and black and orange lichens, which highlight the high-water mark.
Sunshine bounces off the granite, direct and determined to burn, showcasing the children’s precious crystals.
Concrete and tiles and fibreglass and filters and diving boards and chlorine are replaced by salt water, sand and gigantic rocks, as if precisely laid to form a structure capable of securing lane ropes.
Water circles, creating whirlpools that crash head-on before generating small rollers as a result. The surge also brings a swell with gentle waves dancing on the granite, making a distinctive sound that cuts through the chatter of children. The sea has a deeper voice: more rhythmical, more considered, and more routine.
The water is dark blue as far as the eye can see, but stunningly clear on the visible sand, slowly ebbing to a tired conclusion at an almost purposeful pause in the rocks.
Blackwoods, wattles and sheaoaks, peppermint gums, bracken fern and cutting grass gently sway and wave to onlookers, creating shelter over the pool.
The leenerreter clan lived here. It is not far from home, perhaps it is home. We like to share this place, but not too often.
It is where the locals go, and where the visitors accidently stumble upon.
Rarely do we hear a harsh word, with school holidays fast approaching their conclusion, there isn’t time nor energy left for stress or negativity. The adults have finally relaxed.
A local treasure assumes the same spot most summer days, appointed mermaid. Familiar faces offer hello, and g’day, and Happy New Year - remaining respectful yet coy because even though the pool may fill with water and people, locals guard their space.
Schools of Smooth toadfish display an arrogance defying their perceived insignificance as a species. Snorkelers describe their slow movement: rarely in a hurry and rarely alarmed by a breathing apparatus. Spear fishers stalk their homes hunting for more edible varieties. They are almost guaranteed to return with their weapon and nothing else, but who are we to quash endeavour.
“Can we jump yet?” ask cautious and obedient children. “Another 15 minutes,” is the reply, not based on any science, just an overwhelming need to protect. Others don’t ask, displaying confidence from years of adventure and local knowledge, which removes the nervous anticipation but not the excitement.
Fit and tanned young women and men jump and twist and somersault, crashing onto the waves below, before delivering a customary flick of the hair after they ascend. Their congregations look on with admiration, jealousy and lust, or perhaps a combination of all three.
Non-jumpers and returning thrill-seekers flitter away the days away building sandcastles, exploring rock pools, and playing cricket.
Kids who no longer shout Border, Waugh, McGrath, Warne, Gilchrist or Ponting as they hit the winning runs, bat for ages and refuse to extend a catch, or secure a vital wicket. They are, however, fortunate to exclaim Perry and Healy, and Paine, and the Bash Brothers, and perhaps even, Kholi!
There is an extensive range of water craft to float. The upsetting, yet regular occurrence of an ailing inflatable flamingo, unaccompanied and destined for the golf course, provides addictive viewing.
With hushed tones, they are sarcastically named: “Wilson!”
When summer leaves, the people follow, and the pool is closed for winter.
The Devonian granite and their distinctive orange and black companions may soon be lonely, as the locals remain to share the cool waters with their dogs; rock-hopping in walking shoes and puffer jackets, replacing summer’s boardies and thongs.
But there will be new seasons of jumping. Anticipation at fever pitch as those determined to plunge for the first time await a caring tide.
The pool will soon fill, and plunging resumes. A rising tide stirs the locals.
The pool is formed by Devonian granite, hard as nails and silent, capable of sharing generations of stories but refusing to break confidence. The rocks rarely change, only to provide additional accommodation for shells and black and orange lichens, which highlight the high-water mark.
Sunshine bounces off the granite, direct and determined to burn, showcasing the children’s precious crystals.
Concrete and tiles and fibreglass and filters and diving boards and chlorine are replaced by salt water, sand and gigantic rocks, as if precisely laid to form a structure capable of securing lane ropes.
Water circles, creating whirlpools that crash head-on before generating small rollers as a result. The surge also brings a swell with gentle waves dancing on the granite, making a distinctive sound that cuts through the chatter of children. The sea has a deeper voice: more rhythmical, more considered, and more routine.
The water is dark blue as far as the eye can see, but stunningly clear on the visible sand, slowly ebbing to a tired conclusion at an almost purposeful pause in the rocks.
Blackwoods, wattles and sheaoaks, peppermint gums, bracken fern and cutting grass gently sway and wave to onlookers, creating shelter over the pool.
The leenerreter clan lived here. It is not far from home, perhaps it is home. We like to share this place, but not too often.
It is where the locals go, and where the visitors accidently stumble upon.
Rarely do we hear a harsh word, with school holidays fast approaching their conclusion, there isn’t time nor energy left for stress or negativity. The adults have finally relaxed.
A local treasure assumes the same spot most summer days, appointed mermaid. Familiar faces offer hello, and g’day, and Happy New Year - remaining respectful yet coy because even though the pool may fill with water and people, locals guard their space.
Schools of Smooth toadfish display an arrogance defying their perceived insignificance as a species. Snorkelers describe their slow movement: rarely in a hurry and rarely alarmed by a breathing apparatus. Spear fishers stalk their homes hunting for more edible varieties. They are almost guaranteed to return with their weapon and nothing else, but who are we to quash endeavour.
“Can we jump yet?” ask cautious and obedient children. “Another 15 minutes,” is the reply, not based on any science, just an overwhelming need to protect. Others don’t ask, displaying confidence from years of adventure and local knowledge, which removes the nervous anticipation but not the excitement.
Fit and tanned young women and men jump and twist and somersault, crashing onto the waves below, before delivering a customary flick of the hair after they ascend. Their congregations look on with admiration, jealousy and lust, or perhaps a combination of all three.
Non-jumpers and returning thrill-seekers flitter away the days away building sandcastles, exploring rock pools, and playing cricket.
Kids who no longer shout Border, Waugh, McGrath, Warne, Gilchrist or Ponting as they hit the winning runs, bat for ages and refuse to extend a catch, or secure a vital wicket. They are, however, fortunate to exclaim Perry and Healy, and Paine, and the Bash Brothers, and perhaps even, Kholi!
There is an extensive range of water craft to float. The upsetting, yet regular occurrence of an ailing inflatable flamingo, unaccompanied and destined for the golf course, provides addictive viewing.
With hushed tones, they are sarcastically named: “Wilson!”
When summer leaves, the people follow, and the pool is closed for winter.
The Devonian granite and their distinctive orange and black companions may soon be lonely, as the locals remain to share the cool waters with their dogs; rock-hopping in walking shoes and puffer jackets, replacing summer’s boardies and thongs.
But there will be new seasons of jumping. Anticipation at fever pitch as those determined to plunge for the first time await a caring tide.
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