We went whale hunting last weekend, way out east, where the waters are thick with mothers and their calves at the end of each winter. The last storms of the season chased us down the road and dumped torrents of rain across the dunes and the wildflower decked hinterland. We ploughed through puddles deep as rivers as we drove out to the national park, but found our way barred. The risk of dieback spreading through the fragile and rich ecosystem, the Fitzgerald River Biosphere, was too great. So we turned back to the bay, where the whales obliged us by breeching spectacularly from the foam tossed sea.
We dropped a line into the calmer waters of the boat harbour. Lewis and Darcy both hooked a silvery fish on their lines, that dropped back into the sea as they pulled them in to the jetty. Boys and fish were both happy with the result.
We sat by the fire and drank red wine with some very dear old friends who now also call the south coast home, while our kids trooped around together in one big, happy mob; pushing balls around the pool table and building hideouts under the bunks. It was cold, and wet and windy, but still rather glorious.