Berrys Bay

An elderly man walks over and introduces himself.

“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