Vzzzzt vzzzzt vzzzzt! Like a mobile phone ignoring calls, I vibrate uncontrollably as we drive along, bouncing haphazardly along the unmarked road. “I th-th-think y-y-you sh-ou-ould slow-ow-ow d-d-down,” I manage to stutter out amongst the pulsations. But too late - a mountainous sand dune appears before us, like a giant from a slumber, and tosses us into the air. I clasp onto the passenger side grab handle for dear life, our tyres beneath spinning frenziedly through the sky to nowhere.
Jesus! Krishna!
Mohammad! Tom Cruise and the Church of Scientology! Anyone! I was never a
religious man, but I could sure use your help now. I don’t know what to blame - the precariously
rising sand dunes or my dad’s poor driving - but either way I’m not
ready to die yet.
I dragged my dad along
today for the use his four-wheel drive, capable of traversing the treacherous
sand dunes of Cronulla - or so I thought.
The sand dunes
here rise up to 44 metres high, towering above the landscape. They play an important
role in protecting the coastline and infrastructure against destructive coastal
storms, wind, and waves. They also provide an important ecological habitat for coastal
plants and animals, and they are a vital source of sand to replenish eroded
beaches.
They’ve been doing so here for around 15,000 years, although their current size
stabilised along with sea levels sometime between 9,000 BCE and 6,000 BCE. Originally
inhabited for thousands of years by the Gweagal people of the Tharawal nation, they still hold much cultural
significance.
Unfortunately, since the first land grants to Europeans in
the 1800s, the site has been continuously exploited for timber harvesting,
(failed) sheep and cattle grazing, sand mining, as the site of an oil refinery,
and in the 21st century for residential development, partly cleared
and covered with pavements and modern housing.
Nevertheless, the sand dunes remain an iconic part of
Cronulla’s landscape, a popular natural attraction that continues to draw in the
crowds. Particularly appealing are the trails at the northern end that allow
you to drive down to the beach - the last spot in Sydney where you can still do so. As I soar
through the air, however, praying for salvation, I wonder if that’s really such
a good idea.
Alas, our tyres
touch down safely in the end, finishing off our flight with a skid and a spin
across a sandy runway. Thank the Lord – good old Tommo Cruise must have heard
me and answered my prayers!
The car trudges
along brokenly - bonnet beaten, tires deflated, smoke pouring from the engine
obscuring our view – until we manage to decipher the ocean approaching.
A final right turn and the endless white sand of Cronulla
beach stretches out before us. We’ve made it to the party, rows of four-wheel
drives lining the beach, set up with awnings, gazebos, camp chairs, and eskies.
The seductive scent of snags sizzling on barbies waft through the air,
dancing to tunes blasting from car radios. The crowds amuse themselves with games
of cricket, shoreline fishing, and of course dips in the calm shallow water along
a glistening turquoise shore.
After our ordeal, however, we’re not quite in the mood to
party. So instead, we chuck a uey to set up camp at the more quiet Boat Harbour
Beach at the north-eastern side of the peninsula. We drive past the rock platforms,
pools and crevices that separate the beaches, microhabitats for hidden
organisms away from the exposed rocky shore.
Boulders follow us to Boat Harbour’s 150-metre
shoreline before they pierce into the sea. I follow suit and plunge in between
them, finding myself amongst a rainbow of shallow water fish. I stay a while,
floating in crystal-clear tranquillity.
Retuning to base camp, I lounge back in a folding chair
underneath our beach cabana. I pull out a sandwich from the boot and a tinnie
from our esky. No gear-laden trips back and forth from the car park; we’ve got
everything we need right here. And I reckon I could stay a while.
