Today, I walked on the headland at Long Bay. The sun shone and the sky was unblemished blue. The cold wind swept the surface of the rolling sea, sending salty dampness over my face, the only exposed skin. I breathed it in. This was a place I had not been before, and curiosity guided every step. I knew the steel wreck of the Malabar was somewhere here, so I climbed down onto the rocks at sea level and kept walking towards the point. The roar of the crashing waves made no other sound possible. I concentrated on each step, not wanting to end up a wreck myself.
Rusted steel is intensely beautiful; its colour is a blend of orange, red and burnt-wood grey; its texture is multi-faceted, layered and holey. Large pieces of the wreck sat askew the rocky platform and I found myself so mesmerised, I had to go and sit with it. The sea splashed within metres of me bringing its story to life. 1931 and the ship’s engines were not strong enough to keep it off the rocks. No one died. Only the cat, who refused to get off!
As I returned along the base of the cliff, my attention turned to its worn surface, the cream and caramel streaked sandstone, forever clean, with honeycomb holes, ridges and grooves. This too drew me to it. I would have been in trouble if this art was in a gallery; I touched it. The coarse surface was curved, and a few grains of sand dislodged. I placed both my palms flat against it. Was this what the aboriginals did? I felt connected and thankful.
I will leave you with these images and an idea I had as I climbed back up to the track; what if the universe was like this rock? Every grain of sand that made the solid, was an individual. As they came away, from my touch or the wind’s, they still existed. They would end up somewhere else or something else. They would never be lost.
Was this the same for everything?
My soul felt soothed.