At the end of a long and corrugated road, all the way lined with dusty shrubs and flaking weatherboard shacks, there is a magnificent opening towards the great Southern Ocean. A serrated rip divides the scrubland of the shore from a sea that is teemed with dark red algae; armour against the sharks. As an island, some people move here to buy land and a caravan and live off the odd contract job; while others come for the surf and the pub and an excuse to hear the hum of their Land Cruiser.
After a morning in the surf with not much left in the locals’ guts but salt water, they called it a day and benched themselves overlooking the bay. Picking bits of ocean out of their beards and talking about a man who ripped the sleeves off his wetsuit, salt dried on the backs of their necks. And just there, like a single daffodil amongst the elephant graveyard, sunbathed an unblemished, unweathered debutante of womanhood. With a naivety that could only be stolen by a barbarian no lesser than Barbarossa himself, a pirate famous for indiscriminate misdeeds. There she sat turning in the sun, tanning her young Scandinavian skin by the edge of a distant land. Undisturbed by the old surfers, but a story for the pub that may become legend one day.