Bays of Dismay 1: North West Tasmania – Cowrie Point, Sawyer Bay

COWRIE POINT

Beaches T 996-998 (Short, 2006) 

 Embedded map:

Once, several years ago, bound for Stanley across Sawyer Bay, an open, 25 kilometre long coastline, I sailed passed Port Latta in a fast diminishing gap between gales.  While the skipper took waves in her face with the broadest of grins, my friend and I tucked up under the dodger and watched the coastline go by. I was identifying old landmarks I hadn’t seen in a while – Rocky Cape, where this bay begins, and then the long jetty of Port Latta. Behind that jetty there’s Australian Bulk Mineral’s large, grey processing plant that belches smoke and in its shadow there’s a cluster of houses. Looking at them from out at sea, I felt for the people who had to live there and knocked it off my bucket list.

***

The holiday home had a couple of books on local history and an outstanding view along the coastline of the bay all the way to the volcanic neck that is The Nut, standing elevated above the landscape at Stanley, but I had not realised until we arrived that Cowrie Point was the site of those homes I’d looked at through the rain from that bucking yacht all those years before.

I went down to the inviting beach to stick my feet into Bass Strait’s waters.  The high tide had piled seaweed high along the wrackline and the beach was backed by both feral and native plants over to my right.    The rocky platforms of what I took to be a point, and the pebbles that I found, were unexpectedly stunning. They looked like agate with volcanic intrusions but when the geo went to take a look he said no, they’re Precambrian sediments with iron oxide deposits in the joints and sometimes in the bedding plates. There were stratigraphies laid on their side with sharp edges, long thin columns with longitudinal jointing, tessellations, pale colours, burnt ochres, swirls and speckles. Neptune’s necklace flourished in some of the rock pools but others seemed entirely empty.  Cowrie Point, he said, was actually a tombolo.

Cowrie Point-2
Cowrie Point. The view from the tombolo of T 996 and T997

On the eastern side of the tombolo I found another beach (T 997), this time a half crescent curve of about 100m, rather narrow, that backed onto the beach I’d just come from. Again, but that bit closer, there was a view of the jetty and the looming plant, the white smoke dense in the sky, sitting improbably with the lovely proportions of the quiet beaches. Occasionally there was a low industrial rumble.

Just passed another outcrop of rock was a third beach (T998) and beyond it a stretch of rocks and then the industrial works. There was a lone house above the rocks of T998. Two men stood below it with a dog. I was strolling slowly, looking at the differently shaped  sponges that had washed up, but eventually I turned and walked away.

Later, when one of the men came around to the Coral Point Beach with his dog, he told us his family’s story of Port Latta.

He was barely school age when his family built their Cowrie Point home and it predated the refinery which was built in 1967/68.  It’s the terminus of an 85 km pipeline that starts at Savage River mine on the West Coast. What runs through this pipe is a slurry of crushed ore. When it reaches Port Latta it’s transformed into marble sized pellets that are baked at 1000 degrees C, which then travel via a conveyor belt along the jetty to the ships that take the pellets away to Port Kembla and China.

The refinery, he said, spoiled everything and devastated the shack owners. Thirty seven homes were razed so it could be built and for the first twenty years  they’d been unable to use their house at all. The plant was so loud and noisy, the smoke terrible. When they hung up their washing it turned black. Worse, the chemicals that leached into their water burnt them, but the company didn’t want to know.   The conditions were so intolerable and depressing that those who could moved away.

‘There weren’t any greenies back then,’ he said, as though that might just have made a difference, and expanded on how beautiful this stretch of coastline had once been, the ways they had enjoyed it and just how much it had been spoiled. He said more recently the processing plant had changed to gas and it wasn’t so bad anymore but as we stood there white smoke was dense in the sky and the whole place began rumbling.

‘It rumbles when they’re tweaking the mix,’ he said.  ‘Wind’s northwesterly.’  We stood in silence, happily upwind, listening to the plant before saying our good byes.

Cowrie Point
Port Latta processing plant and jetty

I couldn’t find anything about Cowrie Point’s social history but I did find out  that there is a landfill at Port Latta that accepts general and hazardous material and this has resulted in groundwater contamination.  I also found out that ABM holds the Savage River Project through its indirect subsidiary, Goldamere who in 1996, entered into an asset purchase agreement with the State Government of Tasmania.  Goldamere would purchase the Savage River mining operation assets as well as the Port Latta pelletising and shiploading facilities for a deferred payment of Aus$13 million.  As well as that,  the government agreed to indemnify them against all liabilities, both pre-existing and on-going, caused by environmental pollution or contamination that have resulted from past operations.

Port Latta to the east, The Nut rising above a faint sea mist to the west, and Cowrie Point perched on the edge of the Little Peggs Beach State Reserve.  There were spectacular sunsets and lovely beach walks and Stanley not that far away.  It was all exquisite, as long as I kept looking west.

Go there.  Definitely go there.  Explore the exceptional beauty.  Discover what it’s like to think you own paradise and then to have hell settle in beside you.

Reflection: Where the Starfish Are Always Pointing

Reflection

Yacht on the D'Entrecasteaux Channel.jpg
Lone yacht sailing the D’Entrecasteaux  Channel

I once had a friend who died far too young of breast cancer and sailed away to where the starfish are always pointing.  Here’s to you, Vicky, the first woman I knew to buy her own yacht.  Groundbreaking is difficult work to do.

As for me,  I walked down the mountain one day last year, following the course of a small rivulet that not many Hobartians seem to know much about and wandered south down the western shore of the Derwent and around the corner into the D’Entrecasteaux Channel.  It may seem a sequential endeavour but it hasn’t been, because over this period I’ve also walked north along the river and across it and explored the eastern shore, reached Fort Direction and gone out along  the ocean beaches of South Arm Peninsula.  I’ve gone alone, with friends, family and my dogs.  I’ve spent a lot of time, thanks to my baggy old sails and the masthead fly, looking up at sky and clouds and birds, and at stars at night in quiet anchorages.   I’ve also spent a lot of time looking down from Samos at water, it’s ripples and waves and bioluminescence, from cliffs to rocky platforms, from mud and sand into the earth’s crevices, at leaves and moss and lichen and under rocks, and in the pools where the communities of starfish live, their tiny pointers creating a lattice of  directions.

I’ve strolled some North West Tasmanian beaches and responded loyally to the magnetic lure of the Bay of Fires and on the way back home I’ve reconnoitred the East Coast, pondering logistical difficulties for coastal exploring that’s still to happen.

Then just the other day  I met a man who has nearly finished walking all the beaches between the Tamar River and the Freycinet Peninsula and I’ve heard of another who has walked the entire Tasmanian coastline thinking hard about birds and their diminishing habitat.

That’s inspirational!

It seems to me an empty exercise to tick off beaches although each time I find one that hasn’t been noted by Andrew Short* I experience a small thrill.  Actually, whether it’s kayaking, sailing, walking or cycling I particularly enjoy it when it provides an opportunity to listen to the land and the water, learning to read them, losing myself in them, enjoying the whole unfolding of the coastline, the patterns that repeat, the intrusions, the formations that mystify, the dropstones, colours and hues.

Without exception I’ve returned home from every small local exploration seeking answers to a new question or mulling over a new observation.  I’ve often gone back to some part of the coastline again and again, because I felt its call, or because I wanted to clarify something, or because I was seeking replenishment.

A beach is a shapeshifter.  The beach you visit one day is never the same the next.  All you can ever be reasonably certain of is it’s location and that is sometimes shockingly transitory too.  That’s why a top 10 beaches is meaningless to me.  Ultimately each one has it’s charm but the best is the one you know the most deeply; it’s moods, the way it changes through the seasons and the years, the way the elements  combine to recreate it and the beauty that coastal wanderers leave behind them – adornments like shells patterned into something new and strange, zen cairns and the tipis made of sticks, so easy to miss inside the coastal forest.  Sometimes they’re the abandoned shell of some small being or the delicate bones and feathers of a bird.  That beach you know best is usually the beach that most changes you, and you it.

Before I record more D’Entrecasteaux meanderings I’m pausing to cover some of the other coastlines I’ve been exploring.

First to a beach on the Forestier Peninsula.

And that on account of the birds.

* Short, A.D. 2006.  Beaches of the Tasmanian coast and islands.  Sydney University Press, Sydney.

 

D’Entrecasteaux Channel: Tinderbox Beach History

Wrecks and Ancient Litter

A silver memento

Up on the hills, Tinderbox Peninsula is often so dry it’s pretty reasonable to assume that’s why it got this name, but the story is actually more interesting.

In the early 1800s Joshua Fergusson, who lived on the land just above the beach, saw a business opportunity and planted tobacco here with a view to supplying the local pipe smokers.

Joshua Ferguson
Land that once belonged to Joshua Ferguson – this house was once his barn, according to the interpretive panel at the beach.

One day he found a silver tinderbox inscribed in French, an indication that some thirty years before early French expeditioners, perhaps with Baudin, maybe with Bruny D’Entrecasteaux, had visited this beach and most likely made a fire, and stood around talking, perhaps exploring a little.  Maybe this tinderbox slipped out of someone’s pocket or maybe it was left on a stone and forgotten.  There’s also a chance that it had been traded or that it had washed ashore.  Regardless, it’s owner sailed home to France but the tinderbox remained in Van Diemen’s Land.

One day Joshua Ferguson came beach combing, picked it up, and thought, ‘I know – I’ll name this beach after it.’

Shipwrecks

Bruny Island may protect the channel from the vast fetch of the Southern Ocean but the wind can funnel up and down this waterway, aided and abetted by the hills and valleys, descending with rapid speed upon the unwary.

Tinderbox Beach lies close to the northern (Storm Bay) entrance and the gap between the island and Tasmania is particularly narrow and also shallower here. As a consequence, a few boats have been caught out and come to grief on its shore.

On 6 July 1822 a government vessel (name unknown) sailed from Hobart and capsized in Tinderbox Bay. Two men drowned.

On 21 May 1887 the Alice, a ketch, dragged her anchors and went ashore in Tinderbox Bay.

On 12 March 1925 the Rebecca, a ketch (but officially a ‘barge’), heading from Hobart to Strathblane, was overwhelmed off Tinderbox Point by a massive squall, blew out her mizzen sail and drifted on to the rocks. She’d been built by Thomas Inches and James McLaren further down the channel on the Huon River in 1853 and was owned by Edward Knight.

As a small group of yachts moor off just offshore, and as the channel is a popular place to sail, there have doubtless been more nautical dramas on this little beach.

Back in 1948 the Government planned a vehicular crossing between Tinderbox and Dennes Point. This made sense – it was reasonably close to Hobart and this is, after all, the narrowest point.  But again a storm came raging and this put paid to that idea* and so  this beautiful spot (along with Nevada Beach on the Bruny Island side) remains intact – in fact, more so than most others as Tinderbox Beach was declared a marine reserve in 1991.

Pilot Station

Up above the beach and a little to to east there used to be a pilot station at Pierson’s Point.  This beach would have been a great adventuring place for the children living there, and for parents to relax or mess about in boats, in much the same way as today.   For more about life at the station, see Bill Harvey’s remembrances on the  Beach Stories page.

* Tasmanian Year Book – Issue 23 – Page 228

https://books.google.com.au/books?id=m_N9AAAAIAAJ, 1992.

Wrecks: Source http://oceans1.customer.netspace.net.au/tas-wrecks.html