Sunday in Freycinet

What a funny day! My alarm woke me at 0730, since I was eager to have a nice breakfast at Jackman and McRoss before the Sunday morning rush, and I turned my phone on as I headed for the bathroom. As I was brushing my teeth, I heard the phone ring, stop, and ring again. The second time I hurried out and answered. Setto had been trying to call me all night, and as I spoke with her and booted up my laptop, I saw emails from Aunt Laila and Yasmeen: an earthquake in Chile had sent a tsunami rocketing at 700 mph across the Pacific...towards the east coast of Australia. I checked the news on Google and, in my haste, accidentally read a news bulletin from last year. The tsunami would hit at 0815—in half an hour—and authorities were advising everyone to get one kilometre inland. I felt sick as I looked out to the shiny, sparkling, innocent bay. Hobart was silent. Everyone, it seemed, was still sleeping. Shouldn’t I have heard the noises of evacuation, people yelling, doors slamming, cars roaring, dogs barking? I hung up with Setto, whose long distance bill must have been astronomical, and finally realized the date on the article I had Googled: June 2009. Whoops!

I managed to find an accurate news bulletin from today. Sure enough, the tsunami, such as it was, would hit in the next hour—but it would not reach more than a metre in height. I began to pack for my trip, and stopped to listen to the radio as I loaded my hiking paraphernalia into the car. A Marine Advisory had been issued for boaters and beachgoers, but there was certainly no need for evacuation.
I got onto Skype to reassure Setto, who immediately called Mom in Florida, and in a few moments Yasmeen and Aunt Laila had joined the conversation, and Aunt Laila called Dad. Thus ended the Great Tasmanian Tsunami Crisis and Ensuing Family Six-Way Skype Chaos. Really, though, I am grateful to everyone for looking out for me—and I am humbled by the realisation that had it been a real tsunami, I might not have stood a chance. Unless Tasmania has some sort of air raid sirens, the city of Hobart would have peacefully slept in on Sunday morning until the tsunami wiped out the small, narrow causeways linking the peninsulas together and washed away a majority of the waterfront.



J&M’s was by now thoroughly packed with people, but I managed to fight through the crowds to grab a tomato, egg, and bacon pie with tomato relish. I waited an extra fifteen minutes for coffee—I would have left, but I had already paid, so I left a hasty message of final reassurance on Yasmeen’s cell phone and fled the city, going north.



My first stop was at Buckland Historic Church, but in the chaos of the morning and my speed to get out, I had neglected to use the bathroom. So I got some fleeting glimpses of a lovely graveyard, with headstones dating from the 1830s—I didn’t even know that the English had penetrated this far up the coast in the 1830s. I briefly considered peeing behind one of the huge old gray trees, but more tourists had just stopped, so I checked my phone to see if Yasmeen had somehow called back—no reception—and hopped back in the car. I had left civilization behind, and would have neither cell phone reception nor Internet for the next two days.
The next servo, or gas station, did not have a public toilet. Oz is generally great about providing periodic public toilets, but because of this, I suppose, they think they are entitled to refuse to let even paying customers use the facilities in their convenience stores, servos, and even some fast food places. So I drove the 15k to Orford and bought a caramel slice for the privilege of using the toilet. I was noon, and the cafe and fish and chips shop next door were flooded with customers. The entirety of the town of Orford seemed to be these two shops, full of tourists, at a convenient bend in the road.

The weather was very unTasmanian, hot and sunny, and my nerves were slowly fraying as I wove in and out of dozens of campervans, slowing the drive from 110 to 80 kph (110 is only 68 mph). With relief I pulled into Kate’s Berry Farm, forty five minutes later, and tried to revive my energy with a single dark chocolate salted caramel. Next to me, arrayed across the tables, were all the old couples I had met first at Buckland Church and later in Orford.



Finally, I drove into the tiny town of Swansea. Turning down a dirt road, I parked on the lawn next to the second last cottage, which was Reception. The redheaded young teen inside rummaged helplessly through piles of paperwork on the desk, searching for my reservation, and at last left the room. I heard him pounding up the stairs and calling his stepmother, a purposeful lady who immediately found my reservation, checked me in, hand-drew a map directing me to the town Pub, the Penguin Rookery, the convenience store (she wrote in the hours: 9-4) and a fish and chips shop, and with an air of finality handed me a large jug of milk “to go with your coffee.” I drove off and backed my car into the tiny garden beside the cottage named “Swan,” before turning the correct way between Rose and Swan to find my own cottage, Sherborough Number 3.

The hour’s drive to Freycinet Park flew. I stopped in Coles Bay to sign up for a sea kayaking adventure in the morning, then pulled into the proper parking lot to the famous Wineglass Bay Lookout. I lined up my park pass on the windscreen, and by three o’clock I was charging up the hill—passing old Aussie couples and Indian tourists carrying babies—with my binocs slung around my neck, a waterproof jacket hanging from my waist, my camera, Chapstick, hat, sunnies, MP3 player and headphones, bottle of water, bag of walnuts, car key, and an apple stashed in various places around my body. I rattled. The steep uphill to the Lookout was quite short, as, fueled by restlessness and mental fatigue and a single salted chocolate caramel, I mindlessly thrust upwards.



I stopped with dozens of other tourists to observe the view at the top, but the sun which had shone so fiercely and made me sweat during the long drive, was now hiding behind gray clouds and a fresh breeze had sprung up. So I bounded lightheartedly down the other side, but rain was beginning to spit and sprinkle between the trees. My nose was cold and would remain cold for the next three rainy, cloud-shifting, sand-tossed hours as I followed the path around the thickly forested point, across Hazards Beach, through woods and along cliffs and past the granite quarries back to the carpark.




The sun was low as I drove the hour back to Swansea. Safe in my cottage, I stood unmoving in the shower until motivated by sheer guilt over the amount of water I was wasting. Still, I emerged dripping, turned on the heat lamp, and loitered on the soft towels long after my toilette was done.

As warmly equipped as my sparse wardrobe would allow, I walked out into a pink and fading sky. It was too late to watch the migration of the fairy penguins, but I didn’t really care anymore. I entered the Bark Hill Tavern/Bakery/Cafe/Backpacker’s Lodge, where I inhaled a huge hot bowl of pumpkin soup before taking a breath to look around the cheery, busy tavern, loaded with families and old people in the bistro and young men in the bar. The chill dissipated with the soup. I nibbled desultorily on an undercooked pizza, practically nodding with exhaustion. My nose was warm.