Water in all its forms has been surrounding us the last few days.
Our Christmas Day was dominated by a fog that rolled in around 8.00am,
and hung around for the next 12 hours, only occasionally picking up
pace and falling as a light, misting rain. Anne remarked, rather
bitterly, I thought, that she could have stayed in London if she'd
fancied something cold and wet for Christmas.
We spent 3 days on Michael and Geoffrey's boat between Christmas and
New Year, bobbing around in the deep recesses of the Hawkesbury
River. The Atlanta is an old, Halverson-style, timber
boat. Broad hipped and commodious, if the Atlanta was a person
she'd be a middle-aged woman in sensible shoes. The glamour
quotient is supplied by the boys, who look very fetching in navy and
deck shoes.
There is something ineffably moving about the Hawkesbury. Its
beauty always renders me speechless. The poet, Robert Adamson,
has done for the Hawkesbury, in words, what Arthur Boyd did for the
Shoalhaven, in pictures. Bob's poem, Jerusalem Bay, always makes
me feel that wherever you were in the world, if you read that poem, you
could see, and smell, and feel, the Hawkesbury.
We sailed into Jerusalem Bay, and it's magic is both potent and timeless.
We were out of media range for most of the time, but on Wednesday
evening, the brightness of the moon woke Mr S in the wee hours, and he
turned on his radio to listen to the BBC's World Service, and heard the
dreadful stories emerging in the aftermath of the tsunami.
Suddenly water didn't seem so peaceful any more. Our news was
intermittent in the following days, but the enormity of the tragedy
seemed to hang like a pall over us all.
At the end of the week, we had to cross a stretch of open water to
return to our mooring in Empire Bay. Geoffrey said the swell was
about 8 feet, and although I was mostly too scared to look, I wouldn't
argue with him. The Atlanta groaned and shook, and the boys had
their hands full wrestling with the boat, so I hope they didn't notice
that their guests were looking gruesome. Cold and
miserable, Anne and I huddled under doonas, and prayed for calm.
I guess it lasted about 45 minutes, but it felt much, much longer.
Regaining the mooring, we were joined by a bunch of friends for
lunch. Instant cheer. Boisterous, funny, opinionated, and
extremely thirsty, they proceeded to re-connect us with everyday life,
and managed to divert Anne from the topic of the truly appalling
weather.
Back home in the country, I am pleased to feel the earth beneath my
feet again. There was still a little daylight left when we got
back, so we walked into the National Park to our closest lookout.
How beautiful Australia is. We take a picture of the three of us
with the escarpment in the background. We are rugged up in winter
gear, and although Anne looks exasperated, I'm hoping that when she's
back in London, the picture might recall the smell of eucalyptus, and
encourage her to come home.
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Change of Life 
