“The name’s Sergei,” he says with a hint of a Swedish
accent. “But everyone calls me Mr. Pirate.”
Today he’s in a mustard shirt and cargo pants but when he’s
out on his dingy in Berrys Bay he rocks a full pirate get-up – feathered hat,
eye patch, peg leg and all.
He enthusiastically shows me pictures of the last time. Dozens of bass fish surround him. They
eagerly launch out of the water and snap at the bread rolls in his outstretched
hands.
He’s just as eager to waft on about Berrys Bay, launching into
a saga about how the council tried to close the beach off to the public a
little while back by blocking the road. A bunch of locals got together, wrote
to the council, and stopped it from happening.
“Beaches belong to the people - accessible to all,” he says.
I agree. Still, this beach is not the easiest to access. The small road off Balls Head Rd is easy to miss and there’s nothing to indicate that it leads to a beach. It’s nestled between Berry’s Bay Marina and Sydney Harbour Yacht centre; both properties exhibit warning signs of surveillance against trespassers. They’re enough to turn back the innocent wanderer unaware of the beach below.
But if you venture just a little further down the road and
round the corner you come to the dingy lined shore of Berrys Bay Beach. In
front of you lay scenic views of the bay, Milson’s Point, and the Harbour
Bridge. Behind towers a forest of red gum, cypress, fig, and blueberry ash.
Vines taper over the painted blue walls of a corrugated iron shed at the back of the beach. A rope tangles itself between wooden planks like a snake on a tree’s branch. Three chairs set in the shade offer a respite from the glaring sun.
A low tide today reveals bits of plastic rubbish that have
floated in from the harbour. Mr. Pirate laments about party-goers littering
from their boats. He instructs me that everyone who visits has to take a couple
of pieces with them when they leave to help out the locals. A woman has come
down recently in protective shoes and gloves and done a massive collection of rubbish
and glass off the sea floor. Still it’s
never perfect. With that he picks up an armful of bottles off the sand, nods goodbye,
and leaves the beach to me alone.
 |
| The view from Balls Head |
I watch my feet as I creep pass bits of plastic, fallen leaves,
and murky sand to dive under in the deeper end. Sure, right on the harbour it’s not the
cleanest beach - but who can complain about a refreshing salt water dip on a
summer’s day?
Back on the shore another man in bushwalking gear, fresh from
the scenic tracks around Balls Head Reserve, comes stumbling down. He casually throws
his backpack into a dingy and pushes it out to row over past me and into the
harbour, off to discover beaches beyond. I follow after.
Total count: 33/160
