In the (modified) words of the old spiritual, didn’t it blow, children! I understand that it blew all over Tasmania, but it certainly blew down here on the Tasman Peninsula last Sunday! “It’d blow the milk out of your tea!” as my old fishing mates used to say.
We also used to reckon that that sort of wind lived at Maatsuyker Island – we southern fisherman reckoned that was its home. Silly I know, but a lovely local myth which felt very real when you were sheltering under Maat in a genuine south-westerly storm. But, for preference, you actually sheltered under the “Big Witch” – De Witte Island – a few miles from Maat. There were a few witches in that archipelago down there in the Southern Ocean off the south-west tip of Tasmania. There was Big Witch, Flat Witch and Black Witch. I spent some time trying to work out the etymology, but failed completely, so you’ll just have to believe me that these islands and reefs exist, though you’ll struggle to find their names on official charts.
There was a pair of sea eagles who roosted near the anchorage under the Big Witch. I called them cray-fishing critics. They perched, seemingly sagely, on a cliff above where you anchored in a blow, after shooting your pots in the only half-way sheltered “ground” that you could. You looked up to this seemingly wise pair of sea eagles and despaired. You could imagine them peering down at your pathetic efforts and thinking. “Silly boys. There are no fish there – the other blokes got them last week.”
I was once fishing near Maat and saw a pair of wedge-tailed eagles try to take over the territory of the resident sea eagles on Big Witch. I saw both pairs lock talons and wheel miles over the sky in seconds. Tt was an awesome spectacle, but I didn’t see the outcome, as we steamed up around the cape to fish on the lower west coast. I was really nervous as to whether the sea eagles would still be in residence when we came back past Maat. To my relief, they were. They’d fought off the much larger wedgies – possession is perhaps nine points of the law in nature too.
I’m not a fisherman anymore, not even an amateur. I sold my tinny when we weren’t allowed to catch flathead anymore. I am not disputing the executive decision, but the idea that we can’t catch flathead any more seems – to this old man – to change the nature of Tasmanianess. I caught my first flathead when I was well under 10 off the old jetty at Long Beach in Sandy Bay – and there’s another thing that doesn’t exist anymore.
. . .
The north-west blow last Sunday didn’t seem to have hit down here too hard by about midday, so, I went off to get a few things from the shop in Nubeena, a 10-minute drive for me. When I got there, it had hit. In spades! I watched a solid steel sandwich-board rapidly move 30 metres across the pavement till it found anchor. I saw a pile of milk crates go flying. I went inside the shop and said, “If you don’t rescue your milk crates, they’ll end up in the next post-code.”
It seemed to die down a bit, so after doing my shopping I took the back road off towards Saltwater River where I wanted to pick up some kindling and limb wood. I had listened to the forecast that we were in for a few days of cold weather after the blow, and wanted to be prepared. I knew that, after the north-westerly, it would go south-westerly and turn as cold as charity. “The south-westerly follows the north-westerly as surely as the night follows the day.” Not sure who I am quoting there – could be me.
On my way to “the river” at the top of an exposed hill, the wind gusted up again to at least 20, maybe 30 knots. And there was a swamp harrier (known locally as a swamp hawk) just hanging there absolutely still in the force 10 gale. We’ve all seen seagulls (especially on the Sorell causeway) hanging in the breeze, but this was a bird hanging in a gale – gusting to a storm. It just moved its feathers and tail and hung there in a wind in which I could have barely stood. I confess to being in awe – especially as the movements of feathers, wings and tail were so subtle in the face of such roaring force.
On a somewhat shallow level – I can always descend to the shallow – I felt proud that our local Premaydena Cicket Club had adopted the bird as our mascot, and that a local artist had painted a (very good) mural of a swamp hawk on the wall of the clubhouse.
I got home, cut up and broke up the small wood and, after my obligatory exercise period, found the verandah an envigorating but reasonably warm spot. The wind had calmed down a bit, and the sun was out. So I got a weak white wine and soda and was happily settling in with the cat by my side when I saw a flash of white over the bay. You are joking I thought, because I know that that flash of white is the sign that swans are taking off. You see the white wing tips before you see the black bodies. I thought, “This is not flying weather for swans you silly birds,” and thought my feelings had been confirmed when I then saw the three swans all over the sky, and, seemingly all at sea. But then, some moments later, they came over the house in very good, solid formation, and going like the clappers with that wind behind them – so what would I know?
Nature and life is wonderful, for all its difficulties. I’ve had a few lately, but a couple of simple nature encounters on an extreme weather day seemed to set them in perspective.
