Bernier
and Dorre
Paradise is bleak, hot and windy
Bernier
and Dorre are the two islands which lie about 25 nM West of Carnarvon at
their closest point. They're a Class A nature reserve, and in the few
moorable bays there are signs saying 'keep off!' I had a chat with with
the authorities- I mean, these shrubby, waterless and desolate islands are
not very likely to attract hordes of tourists, are they? - and the story
was, that Carnarvon residents were unlikely to get into trouble by
spending a weekend in a bay if they kept a low profile. So I did. Many
times and very low.
In days gone by, there used to be a hospital on each island where aboriginals with leprosy were interned. I've asked a couple of old people to explain a bit more, but it's either too long ago or a bit hush-hush. It's clear that one hospital was for men, the other for women and that The Gap separated the two. I have this unconfirmed hunch that a touch of eczema was probably sufficient excuse for deportation, but again- information is hard to come by, and I'm not enough of a historian to start rummaging around in old files in the basement of the Shire's office. The ruins are at Hospital Bay on Bernier and White Beach on Dorre. And that sometimes the men would swim womanwards across the shark-infested and current-swept Gap has become part of local mythology.
My
favourite hideout is Disaster Cove on the Northern point of Dorre.
Apparently a boat came to grief at the very spot, a long time ago. It's
about 30 nM from Carnarvon, and upwind all the way. At low tide, it's
quite sheltered but the coral ledge disappears underwater at high tide.
Only with four lines out as well as the anchor do I feel safe. With other
people aboard, that's a piece of cake but on my own that would take nearly
an hour. Especially swimming the second anchor out meant diving to it,
walking on the bottom until running out of air, come up gasping and
repeat. On the way to the islands I'd usually have a lure out, and
perhaps half the time catch something. Tuna or Spanish Mackarel. On a
totally windless day the Bay was like a mirror, and there were big grey
shapes milling about below the boat as I bled the freshly-caught
tuna. The fish was tied to the forestay to bleed overboard, and half
of it got eaten by a shark, although it hung well clear of the water and
Treka didn't dip below seven knots the whole way.
Once
safely trussed up, time to get the spearguns out to try and catch a fish.
The good thing about speargunning is that you get to choose your fish, and
spoilt as we are in Shark Bay, nothing but a Baldshin Groper or a Coral
Trout will do. Heavenly fish, straight into the frying pan. The bad bit is
that it takes you straight into shark territory
with thrashing and bleeding fish about. My shark fobia prevents me from
swimming more than 10 metres away from the reef so I'm not all that
successful at speargunning. Fortunately, others have more mettle. Which
reminds me of Hutchie. He swims out a mile, with his gun and shoots any
old fish. Which he then cuts into little pieces.
' But Hutch, that would bring the sharks in!'
- Yes, but also the mackerels!
And swimming in a cloud of fishblood he'd dodge the sharks to shoot a mackie... madness I say! But there are beautiful corals underwater, and while on a mission to find a crayfish you get to see every nook and cranny of them.
It's
become 2004 against my wishes and I write this on a bleak winter's day in
Somerset. Some anaesthetists ask their patients to think of their
favourite place as they drift off to the land of nod. And in the
bright fluorescent light of the anaesthetic room I then get a second's
flashback of Disaster Cove just after sunset. Lying on the trampoline with
the boat bobbing gently on the waves. Picking at pieces of fish and
nipping wine. Looking at the first constellations to emerge from the
twilight and trying to memorise the names of the stars. Thirty nM from the
nearest other human, out of radio and GSM range. Once dark, I drop some
scraps through the trampoline and shine a torch into the crystal clear
water. Small multicouloured fish dart into the spotlight to grab a snack
and then swiftly swim away again.