DREAMING AND WRITING AT POINT PERON

DREAMING AND WRITING AT POINT PERON-Day of arrival
Arrived after 3PM at a Point Peron beach shack on a glorious 29C afternoon facing the prospect of every day through to Sunday, by the sea, in temperatures of 30C or above. In comparison Melbourne haD rain and temps in the high teens. I will feel cold when I go back for a few days in early April.

Point Peron was a delightful haven close, but far enough away from Perth’s chemical industry complex at Kwinana and Rockingham, to offer a peaceful retreat, in what appeared to be a well kept secret. The shack belonged to the family of my muse, Rae, who was again encouraging me to write, as she did for all those months when I traversed Siberia, Prague, Turkey, Finland etc. Particularly as ,rather than getting in milk for me, she had arranged a supply of very good full bodied red wine from their Nannup vinyard. Cheers!

The shack was precisely that, a real fibro cement classic and could have been part of a TV set for Facey’s Fortunate Life or Come in Spinner, in its depiction of how wartime battlers holidayed by the sea. I wonder what kept it from falling over-you could see light through the bedroom floor. Basic it might have been but it had the necessities-fridge-into which I loaded the frozen goodies and bread that Pete had kindly put in my Esky, plus the powerfully garlic smelling small goods I bought at the Polish butcher’s on Maundy Thursday. Lucky I was sleeping alone as the main bed was on casters and I feared a few good snores could have propelled me through the very thin walls, not to mention the garlic and Peri Peri sauce (another “essential” gift from Pete) on my breath. No wonder he was a legendary shearer’s cook for a while, when he returned restless from Vietnam.

The toys, surf skis, outdoor table settings and barbecue told a story of great past and ongoing family holidays with children and grandchildren as the main focus of loving, entertaining and fun. It felt a good place to bein, to dream and write.

In bathers I waded through the shallows along the beach to a distant point drawn towards a huge, dispersing black and sulphurous cloud that suggested either a chemical plant accident or fire practice that had got out of hand. Reminded me of my first fire crew training at Altona refinery-the men put the HR guy-me-at the front, barely within the spray blanket from protective hose teams, as we went right up to the blaze to turn off the blazing oil spill. Of course they achieved their objective as half my then red beard was reduced to resembling a worn out Brillo pad.

Few people on the beach, but all friendly-a very athletic young man seemed to be rehearsing for a part in the All Black’s Haka, but told me his gyrations were a form of Japanese martial art. A young couple-he still in his work overalls were fishing for whiting and responded good naturedly when I suggested on my return that if they didn’t get a bite soon the chip shop would be closed.

The setting sun’s warmth felt good on my face and I could feel the contrast with the slightly chill sea around my ankles. Good way to shake off the dust and tension of life in the city and open myself to creative inspiration.

As I approached the track leading from the beach, I encountered three jolly ladies, of a certain age, flushed from sampling a bottle of wine in the late sun. They assured me they were bearing up well under the strain of tight capital markets and rising mortgage interest rates. They appeared to me to have got a mortgage on living.

Now for one of Pete’s casseroles and a drop of red. Good way to round off day one