Silver Schoolies No More - Chapter 8 - Onslow Day 2

After capturing the amazing sunset yesterday over the ocean, albeit over a bogged vehicle I was assisting with retrieval, we are up early looking to seize the moment and shoot the sunrise, aloso over the water. Onslow is famous for this phenomenon, being able to take in a sunset and a sunrise both over the sea. But before we can go and walk the beach, the awning must come down for its own protection.

From our caravan park is a quick walk to the famous Onslow Commemorative Boardwalk. The magnificent gateway monument is the perfect place to shoot the rising sun. 

Signposted with historical tidbits this kilometre walk meanders over the sand dunes behind the beach. Although there are joggers, the breaks required by the reading of the plaques makes it  go very quickly, an apparently shorter walk. So short in fact the kilometre seems only a few metres.

I just as quickly add a post of some 50+ shots to Facebook as a teaser for upcoming posts.

Rather than return the way we came we take the opportunity with the ultra low tide to traverse the beach. The hardened sand is an easy walk unlike the softer stuff above the high tide mark. A lady is walking her dogs. Three border collie types, yapping and playing “retrieve the ball”, imaginary as it is, as she shapes to throw the nonexistent toy in various directions. As she catches us, she turns and walks back the way she came.

The wind which has annoyed us for nearly a month now is still evident. This morning we were protected on the boardwalk, but now on the exposed beach we are happy it is at our backs.

The tide is at its lowest point meaning we can walk across many rock pools and I also take the opportunity to get better angles of the beach for the camera in the phone. Because of the great difference between low and high tides, the exposure of the beach, reef and rocks are enormous. It seems like you can walk for miles and not get wet, yet at high tide there is only a slither of sandy beach to walk on.

Having been “free camping” (as much as we free camp) it will be nice to take a shower rather than a quick “pits and bits” clean of the last day. Walk, shower, breakfast, administrative check up of emails etc, allowing the tide to rise and give the antithesis of what our early morning walk has allowed us to experience.

We head out again towards the beach where “rescues” were performed yesterday, not to find other marooned adventurers but to check out the park area at the end of the drive. Here the park is now full with fishermen. All I see being caught (and returned) are small bream.

I indulge in a conversation with one of the women watching the hoard of Indigneous children, youths and adults looking for lunch. She is very talkative and describes the family unit to me. She is not the matriarch, The apparent matriarch has pride of place in the fishing spots, although she seems to be having no joy as yet.

Others catch fish from time to time and move up and down to find a more productive spot. There have been sightings of crocodiles here, although that was last year (and the local shot it – which is not illegal for the Indigenous foraging for traditional foods she suggests) she tells me and the children frollicking in the water are safe – for now.

Close to the beach that this tributary flows across is a young family, who like me are willing to try their hands. Unlike the Indigneous who were here early on the run up, they have just wandered in and thrown in lines. There is a toddler with them, playing at the water’s edge. Her nappy appears to be an impediment to her getting fully wet. It is discarded then in a flash she is off along the sand for a better spot to swim.

Her mother heads off in pursuit, but not really trying to catch her, just ensure there are no mishaps. I take time to giggle with the remaining contingent and we have a six degrees of separation moment. The older ones appear to be about the same age as my boys and come from a town where my sister called home for many years, bringing up her boys. 

Wouldn’t you know it Blayne, my partner in conversation, went to school with Daniel, my sister’s oldest son. I text Daniel and he suggests I relate a story which brings much mirth to the conversation. Its a big land but at times its a small world.

The shells here seem untouched. Rose would have a field day picking the best of the tme. I take photos and relate them to her to tease them about heading home.

Enough of sitting at a fishing spot and watching others. That is not fair. The Visitor Information Centre has a museum attached and if we had had the $6 in coins available yesterday we probably would have done it then. Now we are armed and we are making a bee line straight for it.

Over the salt conveyors, stopping for a shot of it working and back into town. We pay our money and walk through the doors.

I stop cold and my back begins to freeze. Just inside the door is an old Koertz Wool Press, just like the one we had at Mt Buffalo. It was a wool press just like this I saw several wool pressers almost killed, releasing the handle to let the main box return to the ground with gravity as the assistant rather than reverse controlling the descent, only to have it strike them on the forehead, laying them out as they tried to get away from it. Blood and concussion were the order of the day when the old Koertz fought back.

Before I was allowed to become the wool presser on the farm, which I did for some years, we replaced it with an electric hydraulic version. But now all I can hear is the dink dink – dink dink of the great arm forcing the cog around and bringing the monkey down through the larger box to compress the precious wool into a compact bale ready to go to the wool sales in Goulburn.

Mountainous men (or they seemed like huge men at the time) like our neighbour Rod Wales used to man that handle on their own. At times one of the table hands (particularly Uncle Clifford) would pitch in and they would make the job for that bale a little easier.

We spend a few hours here. The shell collection alone, donated by a local is ultra impressive. As are many of the other exhibits, saved junk now but in their time, masters of their elements and cutting edge in technology.

Done here we want to look at the salt pans in detail and the Onslow Turf racing Club facilities we have seen a couple of times as we have past. The track is in a state of disrepair. Covid cancellations and normal events have probably brought it to its present state. I suspect once lockdowns and lockouts are a thing of the past, tracks like these will once again spring to life and with a working bee, they will again be a mega hub of activity for a day.

The western side of town (taking us out to the old town) has been pretty well investigated so we head to the other side of the main road. Another water course blocks our way which we follow until we reach a groin. A man made structure designed to assist in the correcting of sand movements. There is industrial work being done here, building or renovating the pier and docks. We watch as a crane locates a D7 Caterpillar Dozer to a place close to the water across the debris of building. 

The crane picks the large machine up like its a toy and reminds me of days in a sand pit playing with much smaller versions of this equipment. They do call them big boys toys.

There are boats at the boat ramp as we head back toward the van. I cannot help myself. I need to take a look at those at the cleaning table. There is a huge cod bing filleted as I approach. The man with the knife and his two teenage children have been out for a few days camping next to a adjacent island. Their success is mainly in the ive boxes already but this cod needed to be brought to shore just in case the fisheries wanted to check it.

The ice box contained among other things a 6 kilogram coral trout laned by one of the sanos. He beamingly tells of the experience as his father continues the work on the table.

The day has been a bit much and I retire for a nanna nap before dinner. Rather than the pub, we dine indoors and retire after a strenuous day of action.