It was my birthday weekend and as a surprise Mark scored some 'Wotif' space at Tangalooma Resort on Moreton Island. Bit of a step up from our usual tent on the sand. On this occasion we caught the Combie Trader across to Bulwer. Getting off the barge was easier than getting back on the water as a 15-20 knot W-NW had freshened up. It didn't look too bad, even the small dumping surf belied the size of the swell. I skirted up and Mark pushed me off before coming out for a session with a bailer.
It was one of those 'now I see you now I don't' swells coming in
from the side or rear quarter. Some of it had a very steep pitch and was curling over into froth at the top. I was not happy and started to sing. Singing to my boat means I am outside my comfort zone and I was not a happy chappy. There were welcome some distractions visible on the peak like the humpback whale thumping around about 2Km off shore.
When the tide began to flood life settled down and become positively dull as we approached Tangalooma. This location was well chosen. With the headland protecting Tangalooma from the prevailing SE, it is also relatively sheltered from the W-NW. We glided in. Two people walked over from the resort and we were greeted by Betty and Bill Rose. They were here for the weekend to celebrate their first wedding anniversary. They had chosen the resort as a place to get away from kayaking and have time for themselves. I know they were safe from Ks and TKs, but they had forgotten to account for sea kayaks. They just couldn't believe it when we rocked up and laughed at their oversight.
The boats were carried up and placed on the lawn next to the garden within view of the balcony off our room. The bar fridge
was stocked with supplies and then it was time to check this place out. The resort is a bit of a time capsule from the 1970s as well as it's earlier function as a whaling station until the 1950s. The room was large, looked tired, but was clean and tidy.
The bathroom could have done with some grout. I think the resort is a hideous blot on the landscape. If you view it from a kitch perspective I guess you could start to warm to it. Such infrastructure does have its good side though like good coffee and delicious icecream.
That night was dolphin feeding was a part of my birthday surprise. We took our place in the obligatory queue to be handed
our sample of pilchards. The dolphins are quite large up close and they do have a remarkable number of small sharp looking teeth like a saw. They were very gentle in how they took the proffered morsel. It was a calm night. Nothing could have been more
different to the last time we watched the rather amusing spectacle of tiny tourists being skittled by a buck broaching in a small wave waiting around for his bit.
The next morning we discovered a free unadvertised service for kayaks had taken place overnight. They had been washed down by the garden sprinklers. The bay only looked rippled from the
shoreline and the wind had turned into a SW so we headed south. It was a slog down to Shark Spit Point. With the surface of the water disturbed by the incessant wind we did not get to see any of the star fish which had set themselves equidistance from each
other like spacers on the sandy bottom the last time we were here. It was just hard going and not much fun so it was about face to be blown back in no time.
The next day was calm and we headed north. Paddling about 200m off the beach I glanced over at Mark, the water was so clear you could see the shadow of his boat on the sea floor 20 feet down. Well, I thought it was the shadow as it was the same size as the boat, but shadows don't wag their tail. It was big, was huge, make that enormous. By the boat length it was 4.8m long, around 1m across and wagging ever so slowly just keeping pace with the
boat. At this stage we headed closer to shore and I did not hanker for another swim in the sea.
We caught the barge back after what had been a weekend with a difference. While it was a real treat to have had the luxury and creature comforts of staying at the resort, any place, no matter how ritzy cannot measure up with the solitude of bush camping.
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