The mournful cry of the Low Head foghorn cut through the stillness of the crisply cold evening. As our families packed up after a barbecue in Dark Hollow and prepared to go back to their boats we teenagers tried to think how we would spend the remainder of the night. Too early for bed and too fired up. One friend had a new aluminium dinghy, very flash for those days. “How about a race?” he suggested. “We will row out to the channel marker and back”. As there was nothing better in the offing we accepted. Two would row the aluminium dinghy, two others a timber one, Deb and myself would row the 1929 Huon Pine clinker built twelve footer. A big problem! With Deb in the forward position and myself amidships, we were bow heavy. What to do? A 9 gallon keg of beer on the stern seat gave us the balance we needed. (The supplier of said keg shall remain forever anonymous). The race began. Deb and myself had a slow start but soon gained momentum. We then realised the aluminium dinghy would just stop between oar strokes as it had no weight to give it impetus. It became a battle between the two timber dinghys. We maintained our speed with much effort. Poor Deb, having to endure my yelling at her to try harder. The others were screaming too. Deb and I won by a nose over the other timber dinghy. The aluminium dinghy a very poor third. We tapped the keg and enjoyed several refreshing ales after the event. We deserved them. As should future generations deserve to enjoy an unexploited Tamar.
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The beach at Beauty Point was a child’s heaven. A playground most children never have the chance to experience. I was about 6 years old and gathering differently coloured pebbles. I convinced myself they were relics of a pirates treasure. I buried them in the sand, determined to retrieve them at a later date. On the same beach the next year I was desperately sifting through the sand looking for my “treasure”. I had become convinced the treasure was lost when a man, actually a 15 year old, came and offered to help me find it. We dug all over the beach to no avail. Years later he would tell friends how he couldn’t help me find my buried treasure. The Tamar is a treasure. Let us not lose that one as well.
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We were at the beach, a bright sunny day. My mother, her friend and the six children they shared between them lazing in the cool water. Suddenly, and I mean SUDDENLY, what can only be described as rolling thunder clouds appeared. The horizon behind Middle Island was a mass of black turbulence. To see it now one would think of a disaster scene in a B grade Hollywood movie. The wind hit with an unexpected vengeance. Our mothers scooped us up and took to the dinghys. By the time the storm hit with full force we were just getting to the boats. The water splashed over the bows as our mothers fought the elements. The absolute fury created havoc. Boats wrested from their moorings, children screaming. The only option was to ride it out. There was nowhere else to go, or any way to get there if there was. As quickly as it started it was over. Flat calm and sunny again. The Tamar can be unpredictable at times. As can I. But the Tamar as we know it will outlast me. Hopefully.
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We rounded Point Rapid. Long Reach, at times, could be as wild as Bass Strait. Or so it seemed to a youngster. The boat in front of us was pitching so much its propeller was out of the water as often as it was in. Ours was probably doing the same. The racing of the motor as we slid over the waves would suggest it was. That section of our journey should have taken less than an hour. It took over three. The waves and wind made it too risky to turn around and go back. We just had to punch through it. My mother held my youngest brother on her lap. He was just a toddler. As a large wave slammed into us a book fell from the rack above and onto his head. He started to cry. My other brother and myself felt like doing the same, but our father reassured us that all would be OK. When we finally passed Middle Island the waters calmed and we proceeded to Beauty Point. The Tamar can not only be unpredictable, it can also be unforgiving. Again, as can I. To anything that threatens its natural beauty, peaceful or wild.
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I loved the James Wallace. When I was 3 she came to the wharf at Blackwall. The captain promised she would be mine if I went on board. The old steam driven tug boat was beautiful to me. Even so I would not go on board, as much as I loved her she was scary. The steam and the smoke from the boilers was intimidating. When she was used to heat tallow at the Beauty Point wharf it was an inglorious demise. Later, as we were about to sail away from Tasmania, she was to be scuttled. I had gone to the Beauty Point shop and missed the invitation to see her blown up. In retrospect I am glad. To see part of your childhood destroyed would not be a pleasant memory. To see the Tamar destroyed would not be pleasant either.
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The move from Blackwall to Launceston was emotional for a 7 year old. Leaving friends and the school I loved was confusing and disorientating, to say the least. As the clear waters of Stoney Creek were my playground and where I learnt to row a dinghy, the change was not what I had imagined or hoped for. The brackish and dirty waters of the Cataract disappointed me. I was not to know they would become even worse over time. Again we lived on a bank of the river, and the joys of playing about in boats weren’t lost to myself and my newly found friends, but it was not the same. The water became more and more unclean. My late father had a saying, directed at the Hydro. “You’ve got Lake Pedder, give us back the Gorge”. If only people had listened and truly cared we may have had a cleaner Tamar. We need no polluting industries on our river. Enough damage has been done already.
Ponrabbel reflects
