Chapter 22: Kiama

I registered, thanked Cook and went for a walk across the bridge to the more fashionable side of Batemans Bay. I was relatively unimpressed. The cafes and windows looked like those near the Opera House, but Cook had been right: there were certainly more seniors than I’d have expected. I was too young to be retired. Or at least I thought so. I thought of having a drink prior to walking back, but picked the wrong venue. I wearing neither jacket nor tie. I shrugged to myself and walked back to Bay Waters.

From the northern edge of the bridge, I noticed a sign for “On the Pier,” even nearer than the Oyster Shed. So I walked over there. It must have been a good two minutes’ stroll from my motel. The sign on the door said that dinner was from 6:00 on. I’d come back.

I went to my room. Washed up, changed my shirt and called Patrick. I got the answering machine.

“Hi. I’m in Batemans Bay, going to Kiama tomorrow. I’ll phone somewhere downtown after I get to Kiama and then let you know what I’ll need and where. Most likely a suit, two shirts, a pair of good shoes. No one will care about my hose or underwear. Love to both of you.”

That should be enough. I’d try to hold a semi-meeting early in the week, including Al and Winnie.

I grabbed Swordfish Reef in case I needed to kill time. I didn’t.

The waiter asked: “Inside or on the deck?”

“Is it warm enough for the deck?”

“I think so, sir.” I was a little surprised. That sounded posher than I’d expected.

“And can I dine, rather than drink and snack?”

“Yes.” So I opted for the deck and sat in a cane chair watching the Clyde with the bridge on my left. I ordered tiger shrimp and a glass of Viogner and sat back. I started thinking about the platypus I’d seen. I knew two Dreamtime stories about the animal.

Once there was a water rat, Bilargun, who saw Daroo, the duck, while he was out hunting and decided that he wanted her as his wife. He swam underneath the water and grabbed her legs, and then took her back to his hole in the bank. There he made her very comfortable and brought her food every day. They were quite happy. Bilargun told Daroo that if she was in danger, to hit her tail on the water as a warning signal.

After some time, Daroo laid some eggs and when the babies hatched, they had the duck’s bill and webbed feet, and the water rat’s fur coat and a flat tail.

And they can still be seen in the creeks and rivers, using that same warning signal.

What Patrick would have called an “explain” story.

“Do you mind?”

It was a pleasant voice, I looked and it was a well-dressed woman gesturing at the next chair, to the right of the table beside me. “Not at all. I was thinking.”

“A good thing to do.”

“Yes.” This was Daroo, hunting for a mate. That story must have been from around here. The other story was from the Murray-Darling.

Along time ago a platypus was in the river hunting fish. Suddenly he saw a shoal of codfish. The codfish tried to swim away, but the platypus gulped down six or so.

The rest swam to safety to make a plan for they were frightened. They thought that if they stuck two flat rocks near his mouth he would only eat small fish. Meanwhile the platypus was still hunting. The codfish sneaked up. First they tried to scare him. It didn’t work so they told him to stop and just escaped. They tried their special plan.

They found two flat smooth rocks. They held them ready to stick them in.

When the platypus came up to eat them they rushed forward and stuck them on top of each other near the platypus’s mouth. That is how the platypus got its bill.

Also an explain, but from an inland area where there were Murray cod.

“Hello, dear. Annoying the gentleman?” It was an older man.

“No. He said he was thinking.”

“Well, let him think. I’ve got a table inside.” She got up and they left. I had been wrong. She wasn’t hunting. Well-heeled retirees. I ate my shrimp and signalled a waiter.

“Can I get a small salad?”

“Certainly.”

“Just oil and vinegar, please.”

I finished my wine, ate my salad, paid and left. I hadn’t opened my book, but it had been a pleasant evening. I wondered how many other platypus stories they were. I got out my guidebook and my phone, looked up Kiama and called the first reasonably-priced motel I saw.

“Sorry, mate,” came a voice. “That’s Friday and Saturday. We’re booked by the surfin’ club.”

I tried another with similar results. I remembered my dad’s “Throw dosh at it” and called The Sebel Kiama Harbourside.

“Yes, sir,” said a young man. “We can accommodate you, but I’m afraid that we cannot offer an ocean view nor a room with a balcony. Yes sir. Our check-in time is 14:00, but I am sure that whoever is on duty can accommodate an early arrival.”

I gave him my name and bank card number. With that settled, I called the Intercontinental in Sydney. No luck. I tried the Westin. Sorry. So I tried the Marriott on Circular Quay. They were happy to take my dosh. In fact, I learned they had a first rate database.

“Oh, Dr. Hollister! I see you have taken rooms with us a number of times. Is this for you or another visitor? For you. And would you like us to invoice the Museum, as in the past? No? Personal charge? Certainly.”

Of course, my PA would have put important guests here. I mentioned that a suit bag would be left for me on Saturday.

“No problem. We’ll have everything hung in the closet in your room.”

Well, I’d been camping at the Waterhole and now I’d be in the lap of luxury. I went to bed.

In the morning I took only slight advantage of the free breakfast and got on my way north. It took under an hour to get to Hayden’s Pies in Ulladulla, where I had a sweet pie and fresh coffee. I was tempted by the vindaloo pie, as well as others, but I’d overeaten (oysters and shrimp!) yesterday, so I abstained.

An hour later, I was crossing the Shoalhaven at Nowra, and soon thereafter I sped through Berry, veering right (east) towards the ocean. I was back in Illawarra country [the area from just south of Sydney to the Shoalhaven; Wollongong is in the Illawarra]. At Gerringong, a beautiful beachside town, the road went northward again and I knew I was only a few minutes from Kiama.

It was just on noon, so I diverted from my route to “Kiama Harbour” where I parked and stretched my legs. I looked about and could see the sign for “Kiama Charter Service – Reef and Deep Sea Fishing,” so I walked over.

“C’n I help you?” asked a cheery, well-tanned woman a bit younger than I am.

“Perhaps. I’m interested in doing some fishing, either a half-day or all-day, and was wondering whether something’s available tomorrow.”

“Experienced?”

“Not really. I done some river fishing on the Hastings, upriver from Port Macquarie and on the Clarence between Grafton and Yamba. I’ve caught flathead and cod and bream and thought I might learn something new.”

“Innerestin’. Gimme a minit.” She raised her voice. “Rod!, Rod! Wanna go out fer a bit termorrer?”

“I’m comin’. But what’s inna book?”

“Nuthin’ today, nuthin’ termorrer. Six from Sydney on Sunday to go deep.”

“Hiya, I’m Rod.”

“I’m Gordy. I was telling your wife that until about three weeks ago, I’d never gone fishing. Now I’ve fished the Hastings and the Clarence, and I’ll try the Pacific if it’s possible.”

“You live near here?”

“Sydney. I’ve been travelling for the last two months. I call it walkabout, my son calls it driveabout.

“Well, it’s not a good time for swordies. They follow the tuna and they’re not back from the warm water up north, yet. Reef fishin’ was good las’ week. Nice snappers an’ a few kingfish. No albacore or yellowfin.”

“I’m actually more interested in the experience. I’d most likely release what I might catch, unless you want it.”

“We charge a minimum of $520 for the boat for a day.”

“And for a half-day of reef fishing?”

“C’n you be here around 6:30 in the mornin’?”

“Why not? I can sleep in the afternoon.”

“OK. You seem right. $200 for the mornin’. You’ll be alone with me. We’ll be back by noon. Earlier, if nothin’ doin’.”

I took out my wallet and took five bricks. “Here’s half that $200. I’ve no tackle. You have circle hooks?”

“Yep.”

“I’m booked at the Sebel Harbourside. I’ll see you in the morning.”

It was small, but clean and ample, room. The price was less exorbitant than I expected (‘off-season’?). I enquired about breakfast hours, and found I’d be at sea when they opened. I prepared for tomorrow by laying out my jacket (purchased in South Grafton) and boat shoes and my last two bottles of water. Then I went to forage for lunch. I went to the Dragon Garden, but stopped on the way and took $200 out of a Westpac ATM. Lunch was better than expected.

I walked back towards the hotel and off onto Pleasant Point Drive. I walked along the carefully clipped grass till I could see the brown-red shingle and sandy beach. I crossed till I was only a metre or two from the water and walked for a while. There was a sign near the roadway and I discovered Bombo Station. So this must be Bombo Beach. That meant the rock columns on the headland were the basalt residue of the quarrying. This area must have been part of the Southern Highlands lava field, an extinct volcano that last erupted 31-55 million years ago...

It was mid-afternoon, so I walked back to the hotel. I changed into a clean shirt, took my still-unfinished Upfield and went down to sit on the terrace and have a cold drink.

I got a glass of Chardonnay from Two Figs Winery near Berry. It was pleasant, but it really needed more time. I then tried an older Chardonnay from Roselea, in Gerringong. It was really fine. I’d had their Pinot Noir before, but being outdoors in the sun meant a cold white, to me.

I began reading when a voice asked “Are you a Bony fan?” A female, of course.