“Are you here alone?” he asked.
“Sure am,” I replied with a grin as I began setting up my prime beachside spot for the night. I was stoked with my permanent room with a view—a view that changed daily the further I travelled south.
“I was saying to the boys that she must be here alone, wouldn’t believe me! It’s so awesome! More girls should camp, not necessarily alone but what you’re doing is amazing,” he said animatedly as if he would jump right out of his time-aged skin.
“Thanks,” I stuttered through a laugh.
It was definitely a different greeting and analysis than what I was used to. Usually people liked to share their thoughts on how I am nuts or show their sympathy being a girl out here all alone … I guess most people don’t grasp the difference between alone and loneliness.
“Do you like abalone” he asked. “Me and the boys are heading out at low-tide to get some. One of them cooked it in the shell last night! Never seen anyone do that before and it was so succulent I couldn’t believe it…” he rambled on, not leaving me a second to answer.
Finally, he paused and I asked if he was a diver. He laughed from deep down inside. “You don’t need to dive around here for abalone if you know the secret tunnel; there’s a field of them and you don’t even have to get wet! All legal size, just you wait.”
Intrigued, I signed up on the spot for the trip to the “secret tunnel” when the tide was low in a couple of hours. He went back to his campsite and I went for a well-earned swim after a long day driving looking for a non-wind affected wave.
Every 15 minutes he was back checking the tides, like a two year old on Christmas Eve. Eventually he couldn’t wait any longer and ran past yelling it was time. Quickly, I followed him down onto the beach and headed towards a rock shelf that loomed up like an unpassable wall.
The entire time we walked, he rambled on. I learnt his whole life story: how he’d grown up coming to this campsite for more years than he could count. He couldn’t fathom how I found the place not being a local from the area. When I told him it was clearly marked on the tourist map I acquired at the Tourist Information Centre he couldn’t comprehend it.
Soon we passed through the secret tunnel: a large opening in the rock shelf that you couldn’t see from the campsite or beach. At high-tide it would be almost filled with water, reminding me of a darkened version of the Algarve coast of Portugal.
We arrived at an open rock shelf: a field of rock pools filled to the brim with abalone—so he said.
Still a little unsure if this guy was a genius or a complete nut job, I peered into the closest rock pool. To my amazement it was full of legal-sized abalone. I plunged my arm into the pool, like a seagull diving into your fish and chips.
“Oh. Just watch out for the eels—they’re a little over protective…” he chuckled, as an eel lunged for my submerged arm.
Do you have a secret fishing spot? What makes it special to you?