Around Oz the First Time - Chapter 87 - Penong to Streaky Bay

The time differences between WA and SA mean an early start is really a sleep in for us. During the night the wind appeared to drop.

Everyone has slept in and we are moving quickly to get ready, even though we only have a little more than a two hour trip today, but if the wind gets up again, you never know how much extra time we might add to the trip. We also have to refuel and to pass through the quarantine stop at Ceduna, not that any of the vans has anything to be rid of, having cooked or eaten all the items of interest to them.

I am taking the lead again, and today, being perhaps the last day we will all be together I decide to overdo the commentary. Robyn has had enough very quickly, and I suspect the others, by their silence, may have the same thoughts. When asked though Silver Leader suggests I have the leadership thing down pat, describing things like houses and homesteads as human habitation, either left or right, sighting and identifying animals, as well as crops and talking about the flora in forests, flurrying past. Trying as much as possible to use a type of alliteration.

Robyn, many times, simply shakes her head, and at times suggests I have no idea of the amount of dribble I am expounding, what chance have the vans behind us. The wind behind is really helping with fuel consumption, the average is coming down markedly all the way into Ceduna. At one point we come over a crest to see the wheat silos of Ceduna on our right in the distance. I comment, talking about the road into Kata Juta which is also windy, but there it is because according to Aboriginal legend, women folk are not meant to feast their eyes on the rocks, and the same applies here.

There is a pain in my arm, Robyn has smacked me for my impertinence and suggests I should shut up, but I cannot help myself and now the dribble of verbosity has started, it should be unleashed. Vistas of wheat fields, forests of what should be original scrub, which has changed from the low bush stuff of the Nullarbor to the tree lined verges we now see.

Into Ceduna and we all pass through the quarantine station without incident. Rumour has it there is an oyster shack about 500 metres past the station, so as Forbsy and us wait for Silver Leader we allow the vans to slowly creep along the road. By the time Silver Leader has finished being inspected, and he seems to take a lot longer than we did, we have found the Oyster Shack. Being a person who compares oysters to snot burgers, I am not real interested in their wares this shop has to offer, but everyone else is into the shop quickly and ogling the offerings.

Robyn is looking at the natural ones, sold thirteen to the dozen, but before she makes a purchase, she spies some chilly cheese laden, frozen in a freezer display. She is contemplating which ones to purchase, and fi I leave her, she will take all day, so I suggest she purchase them both, Robyn takes no more encouragement and is at the cashier faster than a rat up a drain pipe, almost too fast for me to add a can of Coke to the order.

Out of the Oyster Shack, its now time for a refuel, although it is only a top up, as a safeguard. Research suggests there is a station at $1.40 as opposed to an average of $1.55 plus at all other outlets. Finding the station becomes an issue. Robyn uses Google Maps, but that seems to be taking us to a Shell station which is nothing like the price we are looking for. Then, all of a sudden, I see the station, a small establishment just past the Shell. I dive in, but the bowser I need is being used, and I have to take slight evasive action and I am now in a position that I will not be able to fill the tank.

I head out, throw a U-turn around the adjacent roundabout and line up ready for another try. The previous customer has finished, and I pull in. It is then we realise its one of those automatic pumps, and we will need to sort out the payment details first, before the pump will release the fuel. It is also a hi-flow nozzle, so the fuel gets in quickly. After the nozzle clicks off the first time, I still manage to pout in the same amount again. Sorting out the final details of the payment, Silver Leader moves in and I head the Cruiser around the roundabout again and go an park waiting for him and Forbsy.

Forbsy has gone to the Shell, thinking it will be a quicker outcome and he is right, he joins me momentarily. Silver Leader seems to be taking an age, and I remember him saying he could not handle a hi-flow pump without an attachment he has to add to the nozzle. What this meant was the click response on the nozzle becomes inoperative, and he has worn a little more than a splash of fuel.

It takes him quite a while to join us and we are off. The wind at the moment is across our beams and we head east, but shortly we will be heading almost due south and it should be helping. As soon as we get to the turnoff the average fuel consumption begins to come down quickly. In fact by the time we change direction (the roads in South Australia seem to be very straight for a significant amount of distance), the average consumption is down to 20.4 litres per 100 kilometres. But then the road changes direction enough to take the wind away from our rears and off the right quarter and the consumption begins to climb again.

Before it gets too bad, we see Streaky Bay in the distance, and we head towards the caravan park. This is a new facility, only a couple of years old and it shows. The toilet facilities are first class and the recreation building boasts a pool table and other items to amuse the patrons.

There is a group of Probus members here from the Combined Probus Club of the Barossa Valley. I spend some time talking with some of the members about our Club and its six sponsored Probus Clubs and the difficulty all volunteer organisations like Rotary are having in getting new members. I have been watching emails circulating about my Club, Belrose Rotary Club, entertaining remonstrations from its founder the Rotary Club of Frenchs Forest, whose numbers have dropped below useful numbers, to merge. I wonder if it is another manifestation of inertia, we are too busy in the rut of our lives to give back, or is it that volunteer organisations look like elderly filled niche clubs, a place for those who don’t want to be “retired” to erode away to their death or worse. Whatever it is, Clubs like ours need to find a solution quickly otherwise the great work we do will be lost, and that would be a great pity.

The decision is made, after putting on loads of washing, to do a lap of the cape. There are rumoured to be blow holes and whistling rocks here, in the right types of conditions. Piling in head out, and before long we are at the turnoff the main road onto a gravel road. Eventually we come to the sign and we turn in. The wind has not abated and the wooden walkway to the viewing platforms is overrun with sand, so much so, Robyn can “jump” over it. I take a Super Slow Motion of her doing it for prosperity. The sand does not hinder our efforts to get to the viewing platforms.

You can hear the noise of the blowholes from a long way away, and as soon as we can see the viewing platforms we can see what all the fuss is about, as apparently a large set of waves has just come through and the blowholes have spewed spray into the sky. We cant wait to get closer.

Our haste is unrewarded as it takes a swell from a certain direction and enough force to make the holes fully work. Like waiting for a wave to surf, the sixth and seventh of the set, and then because of the messy nature of the surf created by the wind, not all sets seem to come from the same direction, we wit for the “perfect” wave to set the blowhole off and spew the spray into the air as we watched from afar.

Eventually, I see the perfect wave coming, and it does the job, but little did I see from afar, that the entire platform gets sprayed and we are instantly engulfed in the spray of the phenomenon. I capture some later ones on video, but nothing like the one that sprayed us. Forbsy notes, we could sit here and watch this all afternoon, and for a long time we do, crossing over from one platform to another to capture all aspects of these great sights. Eventually though we drag ourselves away.

I head the Cruiser further along this loop road hoping to find another “something” to experience. There are tracks off the road here and there, and each time I go to turn into them my passengers suggest otherwise, until we are on the side away from the waves. Here the land seems a little more stable. There is a rock platform here that smooths the waves out as they round the cape. Forbsy suggests, that a little further around we will find a lovely little right hander for Silver Leader to muse about surfing.

Forbsy, as will the camel call, is wrong again. As we get around the corner the water flattens into a glass off, out of the wind and devoid of anything that even looks like a wave. Finally, I find a road I turn into before anyone can raise an objection and we drive along the cliff. The road I have grabbed is obviously a lead into some great whiting fishing spots, and if the weather had been better we may have had a throw.

Robyn remembers the courtesy bus needs to be ordered by 4.30pm and it is already 4.35pm, so I scramble for the phone but we have no reception. Quickly I retrace our steps and throw the Cruiser back on the road, telling Robyn to shout when we have some bars of coverage. It takes a couple of kilometres, but she calls it, and I come to an abrupt stop. It is 4.45pm now and well after the booking time, but they are happy to grab five extra patrons, given they are already down to pick up two others from the park at 5.45pm.

So, we have an hour to get back, freshen up, collect the laundry off the line and be ready for the bus. No problem, and I put pedal to the metal on the gravel and enjoy the drive, until we get to the bitumen with its sign posted 80kph, which I observe.

The bus comes on time, we pile in and head to the Streaky Bay Hotel, where Robyn and I had done on our last trip across the Nullarbor. Robyn has been talking up the King George Whiting she had last time, and everyone except Silver Leader imbibes, although she does have Oysters Kilpatrick first, and I have mine in a seafood basket. Everyone agrees the whiting is up to scratch.

Whilst we are dining, Forbsy tells us he has been composing a ditty to himself whilst driving the long Nullarbor miles, with reference of course to the trials and tribulations of owning a Jeep. He wants to try it out on us:

I like driving in my car,

I drive round Australi-ah.

It’s a Jeep so I didn’t get far,

Before it stopped and we went Arhh!

I tried to drive it up a hill,

The Jeep said no we’re staying still.

We stopped outback on the track,

Then into town on a tray back.

We met Tim at the pub,

We went there to get some grub.

Tim was great he had a grin,

He’d be much better if he was thin.

Parts arrived Hooray, Hooray,

We’re off again on our way.

Here we are on the West Coast,

Once again the Jeep is toast.

Threw a bearing at the beach,

The timetable seems out of reach.

We caught fish, and some shark,

Then off again, what a lark.

The Jeep is good she’s holding strong,

She kept us idle way too long.

It’s been great we’ve had some fun,

Now we are on the home run.

I like driving in my car,

Next I’ll have a Lan-cruis-ar!!!!

Robyn in a fit of madness (as if the Forbsy recital is not madness enough) orders the Panna Cotta for dessert, where she is going to put it, I do not know, but it disappears, and she is off to the bar to arrange our ride home to the van park, which is five kilometres from town. Full as googs, we rumble off the bus and bid good night, before retiring to sleep off the scrumptious meal and drinks.