From Broome we head north up the Dampier Peninsula to Cape Leveque. First stop is James Price Point, famous for Woodsideâ€™s proposal to build a completely unnecessary gas terminal that would destroy both one of the most magnificent parts of the Australian coast and a plethora of important Aboriginal sites and dreaming (about the JPP conflict).
It is difficultÂ to describe the hard beauty of JPP. This is not a soft place. The blood red sand cliffs dip to a beach of red/brown sand and miles of rocks stretching out to sea. There are three other camps on the cliffs above the beach but otherwise the seascape stretches for miles apparently devoid of human life or footprints. The colour of the cliffs and beach backed by the green of the coastal plants and the backdrop of blue sky makes JPP the sort of dramatically spiritual vista that is rarely encountered. For us it is doubly special because we arrive on the full moon which, of course, rises as the sun is setting and, as it rises, turns the the landscapeÂ into a different sort of wonderland.
We spend our afternoon and early evening wandering the beach, dunes and fronting rock pools which are battered incessantly by wall of white driven by a westerly wind. Itâ€™s hard to imagine a place more evocative of its long and continuing Aboriginal occupation.
Our night at JPP is someone disturbed by a howling gale which whips around the tents making every available bit of canvas moan like a witch at a sÃ©ance. We all have a disturbed night that is not helped by the full super-moon.
Morning at JPP arrives with no respite from the wind but no one cares given the scenery. All the chairs have collapsed into the fire pit that allows Kaylee to enjoy her moment of hubris since she insisted on my putting the fire out last night despite my observation that there was nothing flammable within 20 metres…apart from the chairs of course. As with all famous events in history this example of my wilful obstinacy will no doubt be repeated at every public event until the second coming.
Our main obstacle to relaxation in the morning is that any item including every chair, the stove, drinking utensils and every other moveable object decides to have a mind of its own and seek to escape from captivity. Nothing is safe from the wind.
On the plus side we are all witness to famous plastic bag escape during which, tea in hand, Jill attempts to re-capture an errant bag and avoid it entering the ocean and thus killing a passing dolphin.
For those who donâ€™t know Jill this exercise involves a very short human moving erratically in a half crouch, one eye on her tea and the other on the bag. The state of the morningâ€™s first cup of tea and ensuring it is hot, full and of appropriate strength is a mission more important than the search for the Holy Grail. In fact it is the modern day equivalent of the Holy Grail. No mission since the search for Bin Laden has taken on greater urgency than a good cup of early morning tea.
The difficulty in the plastic bag pursuit is that as the bag changes course, the terrain underfoot alters and so the risk of unacceptable tea loss escalates. It is unclear if Jill is more concerned about the imminent plastic bag death of the last living James Price Point dolphin or potential loss of a mouthful of tea. The terrain situation is compounded by the need to alter posture to grab the bag at the critical moment. This difficult manoeuvre occurs about five times since, just as the final lunge is about to occur, the bag moves on and/or the tea lurches unacceptably such that the bag grab must be aborted. Were Jill a low flying aircraft, all on board would be dead.
Despite the attractions of staying longer at JPP we must move on as we have trips booked further up the line. There is a long drive ahead but fortunately the howling wind leavens our drive by prompting the telling of the The Black Hole story; this is a true story that begs no embellishment. Principally it involves a baby cot masquerading as a pre-ironing clean laundry store but which is actually a black worm hole in space which starts in Kaylee’s laundry. Clothes travel down this wormhole never to be seen again; a Hills Hoist masquerading as a implement for drying clothes but is actually a feeding facility for sheep; clothes pegs masquerading as instruments with which to attach clothes to the Hills Hoist but which are actually secret agents for the sheep and, finally, a bag of single socks which, having escaped being eaten by sheep, end in the Black Hole where they live a long but single life.
One of the principal faults in Kaylee’s upbringing is that her Mother failed to teach her how to peg clothes on the washing line. As a result clothes are pegged haphazardly, some with no pegs and some with only one. On windy days (such as that at JPP- hence the connection) the socks seek to escape their fate of ending in the Black Hole by using the wind toÂ escape over the neighbouring fence/border.
These escapes over the fence/border leave a large number of orphaned socks which are then captured by Kaylee and imprisoned in the Black Hole. Anything imprisoned inÂ this black hole is at risk of never ever being seen again. Meanwhile the escaping socks some are eaten by Death Cult sheep in the neighbouring paddock since, unbeknownst to them, the clothes line doubles as a mechanism for feeding sheep. Periodically Kaylee, being a compassionate person, rescues a few of the socks from the Black Hole and attempts to reunite them with their relatives – unfortunately unbeknownst to her most have perished at the hands of the Death Cult Sheep.
This story serves no useful purpose other than to amuse people in long motor vehicle trips and as a moral about hanging out clothes properly. It also serves toÂ annoy and frustrate Kaylee through its frequent re-telling and allows anyone to point out that you can use any useless story as an analogy for refugee/terrorÂ threats.