We stayed in the shack which was right next door to our old family shack. Our accommodation is one of the very few "shacks" still owned by the original family.
Boat Harbour beach taken from The Point; circa 1967
Boat Harbour is like a little sapphire embedded in the rocky capes, cliffs and outcrops of the far Northwest coast. It's a small pocket with gorgeous aquamarine waters, clean, white squeaky sand and black volcanic rocks. The sea is different and the sand is different.
Back in the 1960's our Grandad's shack was like all the others, constructed in the 30's or 40's, roughly, from second hand materials and filled with old cast offs from their parents.
Back then the journey was a long one and that final corner that twisted down the steep, narrow gravel road into the Harbour was always exciting. The road was flanked by huge pine trees providing a tunnel and added that dimension of entering a special, magical place.
Upon entering the shack there'd be that funny smell of an old place that had been shut up for some time and the old magazines that had been left behind by the previous lot of relatives who had stayed there.
It was a tiny building. My sister and I slept in the covered in verandah end to end on a divan under the window. At night I'd lie in the dark with the moonlight streaming in and listen to the muffled voice of my dad playing crib: "fifteen two, fifteen four and the rest won't score" with the gentle constant breaking of the waves on the beach a few metres below. A beautiful lullaby.
There was a steep little path leading down to the beach below. We'd stop and pick the bright orange nasturtiums, nip off the ends and suck out the sweet nectar. A huge boulder sat on the sand below upon which many an imaginative urban development was constructed involving my brother's matchbox cars, sand roads, bridges and dams. Icy pole sticks made excellent bridge girders. With the shop directly opposite and two cents a day allowance, we kids were in constant possession of treats. My sister would save her money over several days, but I would blow mine daily.
We'd often walk to the far eastern end of the beach past where all the shacks had stopped. At low tide amoung the craggy rocks formed a perfect swimming pool, a sandy bottom at one end, seaweed the other and deep enough to dive into and explore with a mask and snorkel. Nearby was an exact bath tub size pool that got so warm on the black rocks you'd just lie in it. The trek to the pool was long but along the way you'd explore rock pools containing a variety of life. Scurrying crabs, little orange starfish, fish darting about like arrows and anemones that looked like they were filled with blood. Occasionally an octopus and once I remember a shoal of garfish, shiny and metallic all trapped by the fallen tide.
Of an evening (I don't recall how often) we'd hear the ringing of a bell and all run excitedly outside. It was King Harris walking up the road announcing his tent church. All the kids would stream out and follow him. I'm not sure why this excited us so. Back home Sunday School was The Most Dreaded affair which we all hated. Perhaps my mind has blanked out any hours of boredom at our shack, we had no tv, radio, music, just games and colouring in once inside for the evening. Maybe Tent Church was a welcome distraction, but whatever it was we enjoyed it. A huge tent, a pedal organ and that ubiquitous tool for the religious instruction of children- the felt board!
Sometimes I think memories are like fish in the ocean. The waters have long taken many of them away, but sometimes you cast your line in and some are there to be retrieved. Grandad sold his shack in the 70's when his health declined and I didn't go back there for many years. Over the years the demise of the trees, the shacks and now the final insult of hot seal and concrete curbing have left the Boat Harbour of my childhood only a memory. Aside from day visits Boat Harbour is no longer the domain of mums and dads and kiddies with their buckets and spades. Now you see the Alfas and Mercs parked in the driveways and the upmarket beach houses belong to the city surgeons and accountants. But there is still a few special things that never change and it is good fishing for memories of a time when all was right in the world of a child and in my dreams I'm still often taken there.
