Fort Nepean
Becky Croy
The windows are rolled down at the request of an elderly passenger, enveloping the bus with a fresh linen breeze. We park at the top of a teetering hill. Where the clouds mix with an eggbeater, the waves of the east ripple gently and flies are buzzing around the swells of shrubbery. Where the old tombs of war veterans echo against the patterned sky. Cicadas drum a pipe-bomb rhythm, picking up as we draw near. Crashes meeting land are soundless before the delayed foam, stirring up alternating shades of blue and green. Reflecting in billowy waters, cradling the shoreline so the wind cannot reach us, lies cowering bush and twig bending without backbone. People have built around the harshness, scratched tracks untouched for years. This is where we find ourselves. A receding hairline of a hazy, traceable, Australian history. Walk a little further: sandstone, moss lenses, sagging hills, white noise spritzer, jarring bricks, rusty hooks, bomb shelter, red engine room, musty dust, lost divers, plummeting down into sweat pools. In the distance beyond an aching sky, a light house, washing white and tips of reddish stone. Seagulls rest, pecking at the seaweed beneath their bodies. Not fazed by the afternoon heat rush, dipping in and out of cooler climates. Meeting in the middle of the bay, we look for substance. Cruelly quiet. Unmatched by the events before us. The afternoon lays into the evening, folding into misty purple. Lights ignite across the water; sparking a swirl of electrical wires shooting through the fading sunlight. The bricks of bunkers grow cold and musty air flows through damp tunnels. There is a lost energy now, remembered in audio tapes. Listen, between the small howls of the wind, distant stamping boots, and flu coughs. Voices commanding against dull metal helmets. Echoes muttering in return. It radiates through the tunnel. Pausing long enough for our hearts to skip a beat, before the ritual begins again. We scrape through tiny openings imagining a more sinister darkness. None remains. Piles upon piles of discarded chests and tattered uniforms. Power left the souls of these rags long ago. Inch to the left and up the rigid stairs to a slit of stone and inclosing sand walls. Covered by prickles and browning leaves. Between them, gritty shores and whitecap flourish make an ideal hiding place. Pockets of light glint in the cave before bouncing back to meet its maker. Can you breathe clearly in here? The only way out is to march and we do. Directly in line with the frozen horizon. Stuck between this world and the next. A final dip into the blackening ocean. The day is set, signalling the last of the buses home. A familiar, uneasy journey on the narrow bitumen road.
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