The shape-shifting Reef Island. Photos: Linda Cuttriss
By Linda Cuttriss
AS I look over Western Port on my way from San Remo my eyes are often drawn to the long, thin strip of land that sits just above the water off the eastern shore of the bay. At low tide the line stretches all the way to the mainland. As the tide moves in, the line slowly shrinks to an island, known as Reef Island.
I’ve often wondered if it’s just a trick of the eye or if it’s possible to walk across that long line to Reef Island when the tide is low. After years of watching this shift-shaper from afar I’m setting out to have a closer look.
I turn off the Bass Highway at Soldiers Road and continue straight ahead to the end of Bluff Road, south of Coronet Bay. Signs show that this is Reef Island Nature Conservation Reserve, an important area for migratory shorebirds that fly from the northern hemisphere to feed on the mudflats from October to March each year.
Western Port is like a millpond. It’s almost low tide and swans feed in the deeper waters off the exposed seagrass-covered mudflats that extend in a wide band south towards Reef Island.
A dark line appears to stretch from the end of the beach to the island, so I set off at a brisk pace to make the most of the ebbing tide. The firm, yellow, sandy beach is strewn with reddish-brown gravel and pebbles mixed with seashells and sorted into parallel lines by the tides.
Several jellyfish lie stranded on the sand. Seagrass swept in by the tide is piled along the beach and a wide terrace topped with tussock grasses and coast saltbush runs beneath a low, grassy bluff.
Western Port is like a millpond. It’s almost low tide and swans feed in the deeper waters off the exposed seagrass-covered mudflats that extend in a wide band south towards Reef Island.
A dark line appears to stretch from the end of the beach to the island, so I set off at a brisk pace to make the most of the ebbing tide. The firm, yellow, sandy beach is strewn with reddish-brown gravel and pebbles mixed with seashells and sorted into parallel lines by the tides.
Several jellyfish lie stranded on the sand. Seagrass swept in by the tide is piled along the beach and a wide terrace topped with tussock grasses and coast saltbush runs beneath a low, grassy bluff.
The beach gives way to a rocky shore that opens onto broad spreads of reddish-brown gravel and pebbles that appear to form a low, winding pathway to the thin patch of green in the distance that is Reef Island. Eric Bird, in his 1993 book The Coast of Victoria, calls this natural pathway a “swatchway” formed from a “dissected lava flow” where over time erosion and weathering has broken the basalt rock into countless fragments.
The swatchway is bounded by exposed mudflats where sheets of shallow water fade into the pale blue of the bay. Up close I notice the mudflats are slightly sandy, lightly weaved with seagrass and littered with broken shells. I hear the soft popping and crackling sounds of gases from decaying organic matter being released from the mud.
Two white-faced herons stalk prey in the shallow pools on the mudflats. Three royal spoonbills sweep their spoon-shaped bills from side to side busily searching for food. Several white ibis wade around the water’s edge, probing the mud with their long, curved beaks. A great egret lands lightly, watches and waits, moves slowly and stealthily, freezes motionless, then in one quick thrust takes a small fish with its sharp beak.
Several dozen grey teal are feeding in the deeper water off the southern side of the swatchback and further over there are many more. Every now and then the stillness is broken by loud splashing sounds followed by raucous quacking.
Two white-faced herons stalk prey in the shallow pools on the mudflats. Three royal spoonbills sweep their spoon-shaped bills from side to side busily searching for food. Several white ibis wade around the water’s edge, probing the mud with their long, curved beaks. A great egret lands lightly, watches and waits, moves slowly and stealthily, freezes motionless, then in one quick thrust takes a small fish with its sharp beak.
Several dozen grey teal are feeding in the deeper water off the southern side of the swatchback and further over there are many more. Every now and then the stillness is broken by loud splashing sounds followed by raucous quacking.
Across the water to the west are San Remo, Phillip Island and Churchill Island. Tortoise Head sits like a sphinx in the north-east and the flanks of French Island sweep around to the cliffs and bluffs of Corinella and Coronet Bay to the north. Like most of these landmarks, Reef Island is shaped from volcanic rock from the Eocene period around 50 million years ago. The island also has a small outlier of sandstone from the Miocene between 23 to five million years ago.
As the mangroves outlining the edge of the island come closer into view, the surface beneath my feet changes to a yellow hue. Reddish-brown weathered basalt has been swept to the sides and a pathway of gravel eroded from the sandstone now marks my way.
As the mangroves outlining the edge of the island come closer into view, the surface beneath my feet changes to a yellow hue. Reddish-brown weathered basalt has been swept to the sides and a pathway of gravel eroded from the sandstone now marks my way.
Beside the path an expanse of mudflats sparsely dotted with mangrove seedlings transitions into shallow pools with small, solitary mangrove trees that merge into the mangrove forest that cloaks the island. I take a moment to turn and check that the tide is not encroaching.
The pathway ends abruptly at the edge of the mangroves which are barely taller than me. Their glossy, dark-green leaves form a thick canopy, their branches twist and turn and their aerial roots reach out of the mud to breathe oxygen from the air.
I attempt to step between two mangrove trees to venture in. I crouch to avoid breaking spider webs, brittle twigs snag my clothing and gnarled branches reach out to block my way. It’s clear this is no place to go wandering. I’ve satisfied my curiosity by reaching the island and, besides, I dare not risk being stranded by the incoming tide, so I turn and make my way back to shore.
Behind the rubbly shore, I notice a thick bed of shells exposed by coastal erosion and large scatters of shells are spread across the raised terrace. This must be a midden where remains of shellfish meals have accumulated possibly over thousands of years.
The pathway ends abruptly at the edge of the mangroves which are barely taller than me. Their glossy, dark-green leaves form a thick canopy, their branches twist and turn and their aerial roots reach out of the mud to breathe oxygen from the air.
I attempt to step between two mangrove trees to venture in. I crouch to avoid breaking spider webs, brittle twigs snag my clothing and gnarled branches reach out to block my way. It’s clear this is no place to go wandering. I’ve satisfied my curiosity by reaching the island and, besides, I dare not risk being stranded by the incoming tide, so I turn and make my way back to shore.
Behind the rubbly shore, I notice a thick bed of shells exposed by coastal erosion and large scatters of shells are spread across the raised terrace. This must be a midden where remains of shellfish meals have accumulated possibly over thousands of years.
Western Port/Warn Marin is part of the traditional lands and waters of the Yallock-Bulluk clan of the Bunurong/Boon Wurrung people. This sheltered site with easy access to shellfish that live in the nooks and crannies of Reef Island would seem a likely place for family groups to share a meal. Warrigal spinach is growing nearby as is coast beard heath which has berries that ripen in summer.
I carry thoughts of the First People with me as I walk past the patch of coast spear grass on the point which curves inland to the Bass Valley and follow a mown path through tussock grasses along the edge of a shallow embayment.
I carry thoughts of the First People with me as I walk past the patch of coast spear grass on the point which curves inland to the Bass Valley and follow a mown path through tussock grasses along the edge of a shallow embayment.
I look south across the salt marsh and mangrove-fringed shoreline that weaves down to the mouth of the Bass River where in January 1798, George Bass came ashore in search of fresh water. Bass was the first European to enter the bay and his arrival would be the first step in the colonisation of Bunurong/Boon Wurrung lands and the loss and devastation that would reverberate across generations.
Bass stayed only twelve days, but sealers soon came and more explorers, including the French, followed. In 1826 the British established a fort at Rhyll on Phillip Island to take “formal possession” of the land. In December that same year, the settlement was moved to Corinella for its more reliable water supply but was abandoned two years later.
Wattle barking, wood cutting as well as sealing were already a threat to Yallock-Bulluk traditional life when Samuel Anderson arrived in late 1835, but when he set about establishing a wheat farm, flour mill, salt works and orchard on the Bass River with his partner George Massie, it struck deep into the heart of their Country.
By the time I return to the rocky shore, the tide has flooded the mudflats and the swatchback has taken an hourglass shape. Clouds gather as the late afternoon sun glimmers on the water. Swans are still feeding offshore. Birds congregate in numbers at the water’s edge but it is winter so there are no migratory waders among them. Two tiny red-capped plovers scamper along the beach.
Before I leave, I stand near the shoreline and bathe in the quiet beauty of the bay. The expanse of water, the soft swish of each pulse of the incoming tide. It’s been three hours since I arrived and that line to Reef Island has now disappeared.
Bass stayed only twelve days, but sealers soon came and more explorers, including the French, followed. In 1826 the British established a fort at Rhyll on Phillip Island to take “formal possession” of the land. In December that same year, the settlement was moved to Corinella for its more reliable water supply but was abandoned two years later.
Wattle barking, wood cutting as well as sealing were already a threat to Yallock-Bulluk traditional life when Samuel Anderson arrived in late 1835, but when he set about establishing a wheat farm, flour mill, salt works and orchard on the Bass River with his partner George Massie, it struck deep into the heart of their Country.
By the time I return to the rocky shore, the tide has flooded the mudflats and the swatchback has taken an hourglass shape. Clouds gather as the late afternoon sun glimmers on the water. Swans are still feeding offshore. Birds congregate in numbers at the water’s edge but it is winter so there are no migratory waders among them. Two tiny red-capped plovers scamper along the beach.
Before I leave, I stand near the shoreline and bathe in the quiet beauty of the bay. The expanse of water, the soft swish of each pulse of the incoming tide. It’s been three hours since I arrived and that line to Reef Island has now disappeared.
