Chapter 20: Hamersley Inlet and the battle of the motorised vehicles
It rains a little in the morning but finally on our third day here, the wind has dropped away. It’s now or never; we’re getting the kayak out.
We chose to stay at Hamersley Inlet for five nights because it offered kayaking potential. We have an inflatable kayak that until today, has been shoved up with the boogie boards in the roof bed space of the campervan.
We’re now over half way through the trip and the windy weather has assured that we have barely used the boogie boards and the kayak not at all. But in the morning, I determine the wind is low enough and the sun is out enough that it’s time for the kayak to make an appearance.
Turns out everyone else in a 200 km radius has noticed the weather change too. Except they all have jet skis instead.
Why jet-skis suck: a rant
I have an irrational hatred of jet skis. It occupies a space in my resentment with the music of Jamiroquai, the sound of rangehoods being left on for no reason and anyone who leaves the flywire door of the campervan open.
Everyone who has ever been on a jet ski says they are fun. The one time I went on one it was, well, kind of boring. To me, they are loud, large, expensive, space-consuming, pointless pieces of testosterone-fueled motorised fiberglass and plastic. I do not understand why anyone would own one. But then, I’m not an Australian man.
If there’s one thing to know about West Australian men, they’ve got lots of money for jet skis for the entire family. Women don’t go near them. I’ve yet to see a female over the age of 14 on one. Turns out the place to use them around here is Hamersley Inlet.
The day starts peacefully enough with us being the only one there. We sit by the inlet taking turns on the kayak, watching the seagulls divebomb for fish. The kids sit in the front and paddle sporadically while we do all the work.
But then a large, extended family with multiple kids starts backing an array of 4WDs and jet ski trailers into the water. Before long, the boys all race back and forth the inlet on jet skis. Sometimes they take a few girls on the back, sometimes they trail wakeboarders and kids on inflatable cushions (they call them ‘biscuits’) behind them. Most of the time, one kid, aged around 12 with a very impressive mullet, does burn outs on the water.
Admittedly, if I was 12, in charge of a large, throbbing hunk of metal between my legs with little adult supervision, this would be fun. But now there’s something about the need to constantly make lots of noise while pointlessly pumping chemicals into the air in a peaceful natural environment that just pisses me off.
A sneaky skinny dip
When we’ve finished with the kayak, we pack it up and return to the campervan for lunch. The kids are knackered from the 10 seconds of paddling they managed to string together.
It’s almost warm and I want to walk down to the beach to see it when it’s not in raging turmoil. T decides to come with me. It’s now sunny and the wind has dropped again. We walk along in companionable silence and when we get to the beach, discover numerous figure eights carved into the flat sand by quad bikes.
We head east towards the rocks on the west side of the beach. I notice as the waves crash over them, there are pools of sheltered, calm water. It occurs to me that there is no-one around. The water looks inviting.
Now I’m not one for public nudity (after an incident being caught naked in public many years ago that I have still not lived down) but I’m hot from the walk and my muscles ache from climbing hills.
Who cares about a naked middle-aged woman having a quick dip on an isolated beach? Turns out T — the only other person around — has seen it all before and quickly joins me.
It’s a rare moment of spontaneous fun for us and feels far more refreshing than naughty. Of course, when we get back to the campervan, the kids are mortified at our shamelessness.
That makes it just a little bit naughty then.
Day 4: the weather turns again
Overnight, we are woken by a violent thunderstorm right over our heads. It pours with rain for 20 minutes before blowing over. This place is certainly volatile, that’s for sure.
My sister L and her husband, having rid themselves of their own adult children a day earlier, arrived the previous afternoon. In the morning, the storms have blown over but it’s back to overcast and a bit gloomy. The two men decide a spot of fishing is in order anyway. Having never fished before, A is keen to join them. The men try valiantly to adjust his expectations of how many fish he’ll catch but he is undeterred.
L has suggested a bushwalk with a route she’s somehow cobbled together on her map app. G, not that keen on the fishing, greets this idea with the enthusiasm of a 12-year-old who has now spent four days without internet. He grumbles but shuffles along after us.
We walk up the road for what seems like forever, G trailing behind, before we cross into a sandy road just as five 4WDs pummel down the track before us. It’s peak hour in the middle of nowhere.
We make our way along some impressive sand dunes, dodging 4WDs groaning through the sand. More than once, there’s a woman in the passenger seat clutching a small child.
Fortunately, it’s not hot and we find our way to the beach where we spot the men fishing in the distance. They are fishing in our swimming hole from the day before.
On our arrival, we discover A has hauled in four half decent sized fish while his father spends most of his time untangling fishing lines and his uncle manages to catch one whiting.
‘Fishing is easy!’ A announces, to eyerolls from the two men.
Another two 4WDs grind past.
Day 5: Its 2024
After five days with no shower, I am done. We are running low on clean clothes, the campervan never seems to be clean, the bed sheets are getting kind of gross, and my hair is so disgusting that I can barely get my brush through it.
We are moving on to Denmark, near Albany for a night in a very crowded caravan park just so we can have a hot shower and wash the clothes. The kids are excited about having the internet, a go around on the go-karts and the shower. In that order.
A machine triumph
I successfully win a battle for one of only three operational washing machines by realising no-one is using the coin-operated one in favour of the credit card one. I rustle up some coins and am quite proud of outwitting the other clothes washers.
At last, a machine has worked in my favour.
I celebrate with possibly the best hot shower I’ve ever had.
