Shack Bay, 1970s. Photos: Frank Coldebella, unless indicated otherwise.
By Frank Coldebella
In the early 70s about 40 per cent of Australia’s 12 million population was under 20. Some teachers still used corporal punishment. Kids could be humiliated in front of the whole class or school assembly. The poor, non-Anglos and those who weren’t good at sport or academia were regularly reminded of their social inferiority. It put some students off education for life.
But American TV was starting to change the values, culture and tempo of Australia society. Kenny and Ronny ‘The Rat’ were gentle-souled refugees from a tough Melbourne where sharpie wars were still raging. They were lured to the Cape Paterson Surf Lifesaving Club by the promise of free weekend accommodation but couldn’t handle the military-style marching and drill of the club or the crash-through mentality of surf boat rowing.
In the early 70s about 40 per cent of Australia’s 12 million population was under 20. Some teachers still used corporal punishment. Kids could be humiliated in front of the whole class or school assembly. The poor, non-Anglos and those who weren’t good at sport or academia were regularly reminded of their social inferiority. It put some students off education for life.
But American TV was starting to change the values, culture and tempo of Australia society. Kenny and Ronny ‘The Rat’ were gentle-souled refugees from a tough Melbourne where sharpie wars were still raging. They were lured to the Cape Paterson Surf Lifesaving Club by the promise of free weekend accommodation but couldn’t handle the military-style marching and drill of the club or the crash-through mentality of surf boat rowing.
So they left and set up camp in the coast ti-tree above the Channel. It was handy to toilets and taps near the boat ramp. Ronny slept in a tarp-covered hammock. He didn’t surf but swam all year round and wrote some poetry. Around the campfire Ken, Ron and others would tell us horror stories about their experiences in Melbourne and what they had heard about the Vietnam War.
The Channel camp expanded. In winter a fire was kept going to warm numb hands after a surf. The area began to look like the day after Woodstock. One Sunday morning Dave Cook, the caretaker at Cape, came with two policemen and told everyone they had to leave because the council was going to build a caravan park (now the Illawong Caravan Park).
Some of the free campers decamped to secluded banksia woodlands near Harmers Haven and Cutlers Beach. Ron, Ken, and the Kavanagh and Sherrin Bros piled their stuff into an old ute and retreated to what was then remote Shack Bay. The unmade coast road then was a narrow track – longer, windier and very rough, with deep rabbit and wombat holes.
Hidden from the road, with a view of the sun and moon rise, Shack Bay had a serenity that absorbed its inhabitants. The bay wrapped around us and egos fell away in the face of nature’s beauty.
The Channel camp expanded. In winter a fire was kept going to warm numb hands after a surf. The area began to look like the day after Woodstock. One Sunday morning Dave Cook, the caretaker at Cape, came with two policemen and told everyone they had to leave because the council was going to build a caravan park (now the Illawong Caravan Park).
Some of the free campers decamped to secluded banksia woodlands near Harmers Haven and Cutlers Beach. Ron, Ken, and the Kavanagh and Sherrin Bros piled their stuff into an old ute and retreated to what was then remote Shack Bay. The unmade coast road then was a narrow track – longer, windier and very rough, with deep rabbit and wombat holes.
Hidden from the road, with a view of the sun and moon rise, Shack Bay had a serenity that absorbed its inhabitants. The bay wrapped around us and egos fell away in the face of nature’s beauty.
David Legg and Gary Alexander at ‘Trapper’ Williams’ hut
A hut on the coast can satisfy its owner more than a mansion on a boulevard. With the sounds of wind and sea echoing off cliffs looming high over a solitary fisherman, you could see the virtue of menial tasks: remaking clothes, carving a button out of a shell, mending a tarp or fishing gear, collecting wood that had been delivered by the tide.
Just north of the huts, on a cleared north-east-facing slope, there was evidence of long abandoned vegetable plots probably hand-watered from the creek.
Just north of the huts, on a cleared north-east-facing slope, there was evidence of long abandoned vegetable plots probably hand-watered from the creek.
'Main Street', Shack Bay Huts on the west-facing beaches were kept a strict secret from authority and the kind of men who enjoy destruction and vandalism. Over decades a walkway between the huts had been paved with wave-smoothed slabs carted up from the tidal zone.
Only the light, tide, winds or weather altered the flow of activity. When cold south-westerly winds roared, a gentle wave broke around the point. Wisps of scented smoke rose from the tin and stone chimneys like incense, promising a welcoming place to warm hands and stare into a fire.
Swallows arrived every year to nest under the eaves.
A shell midden on the east side of the creek was evidence that it had been a bountiful and idyllic camping place for millennia.
The largest hut had been cobbled together by Percy Williams and his extended family. He lived in Garden Street and worked for the State Electricity Commission. Alert, energetic and keen eyed, with a native intuitive sense of the land, Percy had stopped using his hut, saying “It’s too busy on the coast now”, and changed his holiday camp to a creek near Licola.
Only the light, tide, winds or weather altered the flow of activity. When cold south-westerly winds roared, a gentle wave broke around the point. Wisps of scented smoke rose from the tin and stone chimneys like incense, promising a welcoming place to warm hands and stare into a fire.
Swallows arrived every year to nest under the eaves.
A shell midden on the east side of the creek was evidence that it had been a bountiful and idyllic camping place for millennia.
The largest hut had been cobbled together by Percy Williams and his extended family. He lived in Garden Street and worked for the State Electricity Commission. Alert, energetic and keen eyed, with a native intuitive sense of the land, Percy had stopped using his hut, saying “It’s too busy on the coast now”, and changed his holiday camp to a creek near Licola.
David Legg and Ron McLaren at Percy Williams' hut.
The Sherrin brothers renovated Percy’s hut. They replaced the floorboards with a patchwork of leftover timber and made extra bunks for visitors. By the time they finished it was as good as many of the houses in town and none had better surrounds.
Ken would arrive at Shack Bay in his Kombi van on Friday night, after working in the city as a typesetter at The Age. If he had some spare space left in the classifieds he could slip in a free ad for you. He stayed in the smallest hut, which had been built by George Kiely. It was the standard single bloke’s hut. One room, green tin walls and a red roof. A single bed the length of the south wall doubled as a couch. Opposite was a small open fire with tin chimney, one chair, one fruit box, and a shelf table below the only window which faced the bay.
On a Saturday morning Ken would do shopping for Ethel and anybody else who didn’t want to deal with crowds and commerce, then head back to this free space ready to be filled with serendipitous random wandering, wondering and imagining.
Huts were held more in custodianship than ownership. Most weren’t locked so anybody could stay if a bunk was vacant.
One hut visitor was an anxious looking young man from NSW who was “hitching west”, possibly one of the thousands of draft dodgers on the track for anonymity. How did he know the huts existed? Did the local miners still have union connections in NSW?
Ken would arrive at Shack Bay in his Kombi van on Friday night, after working in the city as a typesetter at The Age. If he had some spare space left in the classifieds he could slip in a free ad for you. He stayed in the smallest hut, which had been built by George Kiely. It was the standard single bloke’s hut. One room, green tin walls and a red roof. A single bed the length of the south wall doubled as a couch. Opposite was a small open fire with tin chimney, one chair, one fruit box, and a shelf table below the only window which faced the bay.
On a Saturday morning Ken would do shopping for Ethel and anybody else who didn’t want to deal with crowds and commerce, then head back to this free space ready to be filled with serendipitous random wandering, wondering and imagining.
Huts were held more in custodianship than ownership. Most weren’t locked so anybody could stay if a bunk was vacant.
One hut visitor was an anxious looking young man from NSW who was “hitching west”, possibly one of the thousands of draft dodgers on the track for anonymity. How did he know the huts existed? Did the local miners still have union connections in NSW?
*****
During the Depression, Wonthaggi’s unemployment rate had passed 20 per cent. Single men living at home could not get the dole. Rather than tramp long distances in shabby clothes for non- existent work, some headed for the beach and bush, which offered freedom from insults and a change of diet.
George Kiely's hut
These were days of real poverty, when families camped all year in flimsy shelters, and possum bones were well sucked. Poverty forces people to stretch their brains. They might not have much book learning but they could see and process things among themselves. Shelters were built with whatever was available. Sometimes it seemed sensible to steal materials that were not realising their full potential.
Periodic strikes gave miners respite from the gas, dust and fumes of the coal face and a chance to regain their health at the beach. An old bloke said: “Ya know, I never once in my life voted to go back to work. It was just the way things were going for me.”
During the Depression and miners’ strikes, families shared a boat and net at Shack Bay. The primal adventure and excitement of food gathering helped to make the deprivation bearable. An old bloke told me: “In those days we shared a house cow, chooks, gardens, rabbit traps, hand lines, occasional kangaroo, wombat, ducks and fish. There wasn’t really a lot left to buy.”
Periodic strikes gave miners respite from the gas, dust and fumes of the coal face and a chance to regain their health at the beach. An old bloke said: “Ya know, I never once in my life voted to go back to work. It was just the way things were going for me.”
During the Depression and miners’ strikes, families shared a boat and net at Shack Bay. The primal adventure and excitement of food gathering helped to make the deprivation bearable. An old bloke told me: “In those days we shared a house cow, chooks, gardens, rabbit traps, hand lines, occasional kangaroo, wombat, ducks and fish. There wasn’t really a lot left to buy.”
Shack Bay, c. 1930s. Photographer unknown
There was a connectivity in these small camps where no one took credit for the accomplishments of the village. Things just happened. They could live in frugal sufficiency with the seasonal bounty. The lessons of two depressions together with intuition and imagination enabled them to endure fasting and cold and to get by on practically nothing, knowing there would always be others worse off. Friends and relations tended to live nearby, giving sufficient reason for gratitude for a balanced life.
Lila Williams told me: “It wasn’t easy feeding kids in the old days. The fish didn’t always bite. We ate a tremendous lot of rabbits.” She also grew climbing beans which earned her an instant rapport and friendship with the neighbouring Italians in the crescents of South Wonthaggi.
The coast dwellers were kind to the newly arrived migrants who also had experiences of depravation and hunger. They shared the belief that wasting food was a sin. An Italian day visitor exchanged a bag of onions for a bag of fish. Long after the Depression was over, and the home comforts arrived, they never lost the attitude towards precious resources. Feathers were kept for mattresses and pillows.
Most of the coast hut builders came from South Wonthaggi, where on a still night you could hear the sea murmuring its various moods and tunes. When the September school holidays came, the smell of the sea and the coastal flowers became an irresistible siren call. They held the beach as an aesthetic sensibility beyond religions.
Even after cars became common, some of the old people preferred to walk to the beach. The track to Shack Bay started at the corner of Carneys Road, crossed paddocks, wound through woodlands and skirted wetlands. This slow pilgrimage was part of the ritual, allowing the mind to leave behind the town’s clamour. The thin line of blue sea coming into view was a moment of pure joy.
A childhood place can be the custodian of your early memories. An old bloke with nice clothes turned up to revisit his childhood: times of 20 per cent unemployment and selling rabbit skins to feed the family.
Lila Williams told me: “It wasn’t easy feeding kids in the old days. The fish didn’t always bite. We ate a tremendous lot of rabbits.” She also grew climbing beans which earned her an instant rapport and friendship with the neighbouring Italians in the crescents of South Wonthaggi.
The coast dwellers were kind to the newly arrived migrants who also had experiences of depravation and hunger. They shared the belief that wasting food was a sin. An Italian day visitor exchanged a bag of onions for a bag of fish. Long after the Depression was over, and the home comforts arrived, they never lost the attitude towards precious resources. Feathers were kept for mattresses and pillows.
Most of the coast hut builders came from South Wonthaggi, where on a still night you could hear the sea murmuring its various moods and tunes. When the September school holidays came, the smell of the sea and the coastal flowers became an irresistible siren call. They held the beach as an aesthetic sensibility beyond religions.
Even after cars became common, some of the old people preferred to walk to the beach. The track to Shack Bay started at the corner of Carneys Road, crossed paddocks, wound through woodlands and skirted wetlands. This slow pilgrimage was part of the ritual, allowing the mind to leave behind the town’s clamour. The thin line of blue sea coming into view was a moment of pure joy.
A childhood place can be the custodian of your early memories. An old bloke with nice clothes turned up to revisit his childhood: times of 20 per cent unemployment and selling rabbit skins to feed the family.
*****
By the early `70s Ethel Brown and Norm Perry were the regulars I saw at the huts. Norm was the plumber at Coldon Homes when I started working there in early 1972. He had inherited his hut when his father was killed in the mine explosion of 1937. The hut was the first on the east side of the creek.
Like other coast dwellers, Norm was a good bushman and camper with strong bronzed hands. Over decades the life of the coast had soaked into him. He never tied up his shoelaces, maybe from all the time spent in bare feet. He was weathered, earthy, steadfast and stoical. Ask him about his experience of the Depression and he answered “We got by”.
He drove an old Vanguard ute and shared an old boat with some mates. He only fished between Flat Rocks and Cape Paterson and only ever used a number four fishhook. Careful observing and listening in nature was his life vocation. He kept detailed records of all his fishing in a battered book. Ron Gilmour, a neighbour from his Broome Crescent days, said “Norm could not swim a stroke”.
Like other coast dwellers, Norm was a good bushman and camper with strong bronzed hands. Over decades the life of the coast had soaked into him. He never tied up his shoelaces, maybe from all the time spent in bare feet. He was weathered, earthy, steadfast and stoical. Ask him about his experience of the Depression and he answered “We got by”.
He drove an old Vanguard ute and shared an old boat with some mates. He only fished between Flat Rocks and Cape Paterson and only ever used a number four fishhook. Careful observing and listening in nature was his life vocation. He kept detailed records of all his fishing in a battered book. Ron Gilmour, a neighbour from his Broome Crescent days, said “Norm could not swim a stroke”.
Ethel Brown was the understanding matriarch of the huts. The spirit of the beach and surrounding bush had soaked into her from early childhood, nurturing her during the hard and hungry times. Like many of her generation who experienced real poverty, her face told of strain and perseverance. Being poor wasn’t the problem; it was being disrespected by those who were better off.
With help from friends, she ignored authorities and lived a peaceful life at Shack Bay. The window of her hut looked across the bay. It had a string of cowrie shells draped across it.
With basic needs met, and connected to her place, her desires were focused solely on the wellbeing of grandchildren and those worse off than her. She reminded me of Ma Joad in the novel Grapes of Wrath. “If you're in trouble, or hurt or need - go to the poor people. They're the only ones that'll help - the only ones.”
My last memory of Ethel was a late Sunday afternoon. As the fading winter sunlight moved up the cliff, Ethel was standing on the edge of the rock platform closest to where Kenny was waiting for that one last wave before going back to the city. Ethel yelled, as many mothers of her generation were used to doing, “KENNYYYYY….. YA TEEEEAAAAA’S READYYYYY!!!!”
In the mid `70s the Lands Department put a notice on all the huts stating that if the owners could not produce a current lease they would be demolished.
Like a coast plant clinging to a cliff, with nowhere else to go, Ethel held on to her humble home for as long as she could. Her eviction was traumatic for the whole family. After much anxiety she moved to South Dudley. It might as well have been another country. Like any native with deep roots she did not transplant well. She died in a car accident not long after.
With help from friends, she ignored authorities and lived a peaceful life at Shack Bay. The window of her hut looked across the bay. It had a string of cowrie shells draped across it.
With basic needs met, and connected to her place, her desires were focused solely on the wellbeing of grandchildren and those worse off than her. She reminded me of Ma Joad in the novel Grapes of Wrath. “If you're in trouble, or hurt or need - go to the poor people. They're the only ones that'll help - the only ones.”
My last memory of Ethel was a late Sunday afternoon. As the fading winter sunlight moved up the cliff, Ethel was standing on the edge of the rock platform closest to where Kenny was waiting for that one last wave before going back to the city. Ethel yelled, as many mothers of her generation were used to doing, “KENNYYYYY….. YA TEEEEAAAAA’S READYYYYY!!!!”
In the mid `70s the Lands Department put a notice on all the huts stating that if the owners could not produce a current lease they would be demolished.
Like a coast plant clinging to a cliff, with nowhere else to go, Ethel held on to her humble home for as long as she could. Her eviction was traumatic for the whole family. After much anxiety she moved to South Dudley. It might as well have been another country. Like any native with deep roots she did not transplant well. She died in a car accident not long after.
*****
All the huts and people passed on to me a way of being in the world that appreciated good and beautiful things that didn’t cost anything. I admired their authenticity and aversion to conspicuous wealth. Their simple, frugal lives made them legends of respectability and their generation gave us perspective.
It filled a deep need for me at the time. Arriving at a coastal hut, a school uniform could be rolled up and put out of mind. Like some baptism, the sea cleared the nose, unclenched the brain and restored clarity. Time stretched; thoughts, movements and actions flowed naturally and the boundary between self and the natural world disappeared.
When the wind and sea stop, the deep stillness can be an almost spiritual experience. There were moments of unconscious splendour in the things we did, immersed and absorbed in the light, colour, sound and smell. Watching an eagle or seabird in effortless motion, the jewel flash of a bird through banksias, aimlessly wandering on rock platforms, cliffs and bush hinterland in all directions. We followed the creek inland to what was then a vast manna gum woodland, home to koalas and goannas.
We challenged the elements, took shortcuts up cliffs, tobogganed down the steep grassy hill on sheets of iron. Everything was possible and we felt indestructible. There were moments of wordless communication and understanding between close friends. Events manifested that later left us wondering if they had happened especially for us.
Leaving the huts on Sunday evening and returning to “civilisation” was a solemn process. I would get home late and exhausted, but feeling healed and ready for another round with the modern world.
Those carefree, dreamtime days with the hut people are rich in my memory.
It filled a deep need for me at the time. Arriving at a coastal hut, a school uniform could be rolled up and put out of mind. Like some baptism, the sea cleared the nose, unclenched the brain and restored clarity. Time stretched; thoughts, movements and actions flowed naturally and the boundary between self and the natural world disappeared.
When the wind and sea stop, the deep stillness can be an almost spiritual experience. There were moments of unconscious splendour in the things we did, immersed and absorbed in the light, colour, sound and smell. Watching an eagle or seabird in effortless motion, the jewel flash of a bird through banksias, aimlessly wandering on rock platforms, cliffs and bush hinterland in all directions. We followed the creek inland to what was then a vast manna gum woodland, home to koalas and goannas.
We challenged the elements, took shortcuts up cliffs, tobogganed down the steep grassy hill on sheets of iron. Everything was possible and we felt indestructible. There were moments of wordless communication and understanding between close friends. Events manifested that later left us wondering if they had happened especially for us.
Leaving the huts on Sunday evening and returning to “civilisation” was a solemn process. I would get home late and exhausted, but feeling healed and ready for another round with the modern world.
Those carefree, dreamtime days with the hut people are rich in my memory.
Dedicated to the hut dwellers of South Wonthaggi: Ted Mason, Norm Legge, Percy Williams, Ethel Brown, Jim Bell, Jean Colbert, Calder Brothers, Norm Perry, Jim Longstaff, Trapper Williams, ‘Nig Undy’, Eddy Harmer, Tom Bawden and their mates and clans.
The coast dwellers
August 27, 2016 - Jim McDonnell was still living in a hut on the coast between Harmers and Cape in the mid-1970s. Frank Coldebella recalls a man attuned to the natural rhythms of life.
August 27, 2016 - Jim McDonnell was still living in a hut on the coast between Harmers and Cape in the mid-1970s. Frank Coldebella recalls a man attuned to the natural rhythms of life.