On Granite

Following a series of events, I found myself on Granite Island yesterday, much in the same way that one finds onself in a recurring dream, that is different every time.

Here we are, having walked ahead of the Horse Drawn Tram, having passed the Penguin Interpretive Centre, and the surrounding penguin habitat, having climbed over several large granites beyond the kiosk and restaurant to observe the spray, having eaten icecreams with our friends, having left them to wait for the tram to return, here we are, having climbed the steep wooden steps to the first platform and the first grand ocean view, where I want to begin.

I look down. I see an old Ngarringeri man standing on the rocks below. He is looking out for whales and penguins and seals. I don't see the old man. I am reading this on an interpretive sign. I think about the old man.

It is hot. We walk the dirt trail on the ocean side of the Island. Below us, the ocean is blue and green, smashing and swirling white spray over the rocks like a washing machine. But we are hot and sweaty. We drink some warm bottled tap water, and keep walking. The vegetation is low. Waxy green shrubs, salt bush and feathery rabbit tail grasses, low broken pines, their scent mingled with that of invisible penguins.

At the far end of the island a man sits on Umbrella Rock, arms outstretched. A bi-plane flies overhead. His companion takes a photograph.

On the lee side of the island it's even warmer, and the scent of pines is strong. There used to be kangaroos here. We have seen them. We have walked the Kaiki trail many times before, even at night, with torches.

Now we can see the Causeway, and the mainland. The path turns down towards the rocky beach. It becomes a bridge, made of concrete beams, that rattle. I'm glad I do not feel obliged to speak, and break the spell of memory.