All photos by Linda Cuttriss By Linda Cuttriss
I CAN hear the ocean rumbling, telling me there’s a big swell running. The sky is blue, the wind is light. It’s a perfect day to visit The Blowhole at the south-west tip of Phillip Island.
A boardwalk hugs the side of the bluff, past penguin boxes and views of The Nobbies, Seal Rocks and out to the big blue sea. Although I know this swell is here for the day, I find myself walking briskly, glancing quickly at the massive waves crashing and rolling across the rocks that separate Point Grant from The Nobbies. The tide is dropping and I don’t want to miss The Blowhole’s dramatic show.
I CAN hear the ocean rumbling, telling me there’s a big swell running. The sky is blue, the wind is light. It’s a perfect day to visit The Blowhole at the south-west tip of Phillip Island.
A boardwalk hugs the side of the bluff, past penguin boxes and views of The Nobbies, Seal Rocks and out to the big blue sea. Although I know this swell is here for the day, I find myself walking briskly, glancing quickly at the massive waves crashing and rolling across the rocks that separate Point Grant from The Nobbies. The tide is dropping and I don’t want to miss The Blowhole’s dramatic show.
The walkway curves around to the south side of Point Grant and nudges the edge of a high cliff. People are gathered against the railings gasping in fear and delight. It feels like we’re standing on the bow of a huge ship punching through the sea.
Waves heave and grow as if the ocean intends to engulf us. The waves rise up until they can stand no longer then collapse in great explosions onto the rocks below. Columns of frothing white water rear up towards us. A fine mist floats up and falls gently down. I lick my lips and taste the salt of the sea.
These waves were formed by a storm deep down in the Southern Ocean, great balls of energy rolling in perpetual orbital motion until they reach shallow water, slow down, become elliptical in shape and finally tumble over and rush towards the shore.
I can hear the deep thud of water slamming inside The Blowhole a short distance away. The sound lures me further along the boardwalk and over the beaded carpet of noonflower that covers the rounded bluffs.
The rocks below are drowned with brilliant white froth as a huge bulge of water topped with bubbling foam surges through a narrow gutter into the The Blowhole’s mouth. The wave shudders inside, compressing air like a battering ram against the rear wall of the cave. As the wave subsides the trapped air blows out violently in a gigantic breath of spray.
I am mesmerised as I watch each wave push in. I play a game of guessing how big the next blow will be. Looking seaward between the sets, I wait and watch, searching for that fattening line of water to emerge from the wide flat sea.
The waves come in pulses of three and four followed by a lull. As the water withdraws, the rock platforms are patterned with lacy shawls and waterfalls run down their edges. The sea lolls quietly as if drawing in a breath, rebuilding its strength.
I turn and walk to the end of the boardwalk where bold basalt headlands seem dwarfed by the powerful sea. The mountainous walls of water appear almost as high as the cliffs, as if they are coming to invade the land.
But the hard volcanic rock platforms are staunch and resilient, taking the brunt of the power, transforming the mighty waves from marauding hordes to wild horses spooked by an unknown threat. They rear up with necks outstretched and heads held high then bolt in panic, some stumbling as they thunder forward.
The rocky shore corrals them. They prance up and down and circle around looking for an escape. When they reach the base of the cliffs they pull back together and there’s a moment of calm as they realise they have come to the end of the line.
I hope all who have witnessed these waves today are humbled by the raw power and beauty of nature. Of all the memories they take away with them, I hope the one that stays with them is a deep feeling of respect.
Waves heave and grow as if the ocean intends to engulf us. The waves rise up until they can stand no longer then collapse in great explosions onto the rocks below. Columns of frothing white water rear up towards us. A fine mist floats up and falls gently down. I lick my lips and taste the salt of the sea.
These waves were formed by a storm deep down in the Southern Ocean, great balls of energy rolling in perpetual orbital motion until they reach shallow water, slow down, become elliptical in shape and finally tumble over and rush towards the shore.
I can hear the deep thud of water slamming inside The Blowhole a short distance away. The sound lures me further along the boardwalk and over the beaded carpet of noonflower that covers the rounded bluffs.
The rocks below are drowned with brilliant white froth as a huge bulge of water topped with bubbling foam surges through a narrow gutter into the The Blowhole’s mouth. The wave shudders inside, compressing air like a battering ram against the rear wall of the cave. As the wave subsides the trapped air blows out violently in a gigantic breath of spray.
I am mesmerised as I watch each wave push in. I play a game of guessing how big the next blow will be. Looking seaward between the sets, I wait and watch, searching for that fattening line of water to emerge from the wide flat sea.
The waves come in pulses of three and four followed by a lull. As the water withdraws, the rock platforms are patterned with lacy shawls and waterfalls run down their edges. The sea lolls quietly as if drawing in a breath, rebuilding its strength.
I turn and walk to the end of the boardwalk where bold basalt headlands seem dwarfed by the powerful sea. The mountainous walls of water appear almost as high as the cliffs, as if they are coming to invade the land.
But the hard volcanic rock platforms are staunch and resilient, taking the brunt of the power, transforming the mighty waves from marauding hordes to wild horses spooked by an unknown threat. They rear up with necks outstretched and heads held high then bolt in panic, some stumbling as they thunder forward.
The rocky shore corrals them. They prance up and down and circle around looking for an escape. When they reach the base of the cliffs they pull back together and there’s a moment of calm as they realise they have come to the end of the line.
I hope all who have witnessed these waves today are humbled by the raw power and beauty of nature. Of all the memories they take away with them, I hope the one that stays with them is a deep feeling of respect.
COMMENTS
April 24, 2016
Having read Linda’s wonderful piece about the Blowhole with the majesty of the Nobbies in the photos, I thought I would send you the poem I wrote when the Nobbies Action Group was formed to fight the inappropriate building.
Anne Davie, Ventnor
Ode to the Nobbies
This sentinel in time
this grandeur of rock and breaker
caressed by wind and rain
majestic and powerful.
The dipping gull, the boisterous seal
the diving penguin, bear testimony
to a special place
their sanctuary.
To its rocky platform
the Aborigines did come
for shellfish, to feast
and to tell stories of the dreamtime.
And in our frantic lives
we need this place
to embrace the wind
to feel the space.
To hear the call of the bird
and the sound of the sea
to rejoice in the beauty
and replenish the soul.
This sentinel of time
this grandeur of rock and breaker
caressed by wind and rain
watches in silence.
April 24, 2016
Having read Linda’s wonderful piece about the Blowhole with the majesty of the Nobbies in the photos, I thought I would send you the poem I wrote when the Nobbies Action Group was formed to fight the inappropriate building.
Anne Davie, Ventnor
Ode to the Nobbies
This sentinel in time
this grandeur of rock and breaker
caressed by wind and rain
majestic and powerful.
The dipping gull, the boisterous seal
the diving penguin, bear testimony
to a special place
their sanctuary.
To its rocky platform
the Aborigines did come
for shellfish, to feast
and to tell stories of the dreamtime.
And in our frantic lives
we need this place
to embrace the wind
to feel the space.
To hear the call of the bird
and the sound of the sea
to rejoice in the beauty
and replenish the soul.
This sentinel of time
this grandeur of rock and breaker
caressed by wind and rain
watches in silence.