Last Christmas brothers Luke and David Wilkinson converged from north and south to share a morning on the Southern Coast. Later they found they had both written impressions of that morning.
One perfect morning
By Dave Wilkinson
From the gravelly car park we track the grey sand trail that marks the path. We edge the line of teatree and tip suddenly into the gloom, steeping down into the damp coolness of shadow. Dank caverns of tree fern and maleleuca wall up along the path, limbs feathering out their green hands. Dewdrops bead, glassy in the dim light. They glisten and explode in a shower of cold as we brush aside the heavy fronds that overhang the trail. We breathe deep. Feel the proximity of the other, the closeness of the coast. Somewhere, a bird calls. We angle our boards, crab march a steep diagonal and snake down through a tangle of growth. Skirting the hidden cliff, we do not glimpse the sea, but we hear it, and know then that we’ve heard without knowing. Its softness of rushing. The sea summoning. Pulses quicken and now the shock of sand so sudden. Tramping out into a dazzling world, the gracing arc of a beach, the curve of a wave. The sunlight, it rises on the sea. And at our backs, the land looms like a cathedral.
By Luke Wilkinson
The silence. I feel it, sense it as the wave is gliding me along. The green grows, gathers shape and form, and the white is yet to salute the shore. There is no sound, only movement of color and shape. A sliding wave, conveying me along in silent flight. The silence. I can feel it, am of it. Stillness saturates whilst looking down, I see the nose skeet, glide and glisten over the rising marbled sea. I watch it staring. The sound of the board cutting the water down along its rails does not reach my ears, stolen away by the spell of the present. A greeny blue line grows emerging ahead, shifting and rising, tracking a column towards the headland. The peace of the movement, the moment. The beauty of the light on a rising wall, extending along the line. The mood of reverence in that natural amphitheatre, the ocean performing to the terraced stands of tea tree and banksia. I don’t feel out of place, but rather part of a congregation of elements combining to just about as perfect as it could be. Abruptly the captivation is smashed by a breaking wave arriving to claw and clamor my right shoulder. Instantly the world is unmuted and commotion pervades. The breaker bursts and bustles to wrap me up in its grasp. The mottled glass suddenly morphs into a white bubbling fury. The wave’s raucous announcement of its violent coup of the calm. It's too late to try to move the heavy board into the remaining unbroken shoulder. I surrender to sink into the white settling soup.