The Post Office—Weather bound—Home.

Wherever one looks from Wallaby Island, little rocky islets stand out from the coral plateau, and many of them can be waded to. West Wallaby is another good-sized island a mile and a half or so from our camp. There is, however, a deep fissure-like channel between it and us, and the distance is somewhat great to wade on the sharp, coral bottom which intervenes. At low tide this rocky plateau is almost level with the water, but we found plenty of oysters on the islets we visited.

On Wednesday we looked anxiously for the boat. Our stay on the island was becoming monotonous, as we had no means of leaving it except where we could wade to. We knew that plenty of fresh bread would be on board, and some other supplies which we found we required, as well as water, of which we were running short. About three o’clock, just as we were giving up hope of her arrival that day, a sail was descried coming over the horizon, and, in an hour or so more, all doubts of identity were dispelled as the white hull of the “While-away” hove in sight, and she bore down to her anchorage at Pigeon Island.

Although we had had a good steady breeze during the four days of our stay on Wallaby Island, the boat had become becalmed on her way to Geraldton, and the passage across had taken some forty-eight hours. The tide being high, we at once struck camp, and shifted our chattels aboard that evening so as to be ready for an early start to Rat Island, some 14 miles to the south, next morning.

Rat Island is probably the largest of the group, and is a level plateau of coral standing about ten feet out of the sea, with an area of about 500 acres. Here extensive deposits of guano have been worked, and a large stone shed for sorting in, besides huts and tram lines, were erected, but the island having been worked out, everything worth taking away has been removed to the present workings at the Pelsart group. Only the walls of the buildings now remain. What was once a good stone jetty runs a few chains out into fairly deep water. A few Italian fishermen reside here, and, with their half-dozen boats moored near the jetty, give the place a comparatively busy aspect. We found them most obliging in every way. As we approached, they put off in their dinghy and assisted us to our moorings at the head of the jetty. After mooring, we went ashore to prospect.

The island is well clothed with low shrubs, and in many parts there is a dense sward of wild oats and silver grass, while numerous patches of ice-plant denote that the soil is rich in nitrogenous matters. About a hundred acres of soil could be got on this island which would grow prolific root crops.

What attracted our interest most was the sea fowl. Millions upon millions of sooty and noddy terns rose in clouds, and circling round for a few minutes, settled again. This is one of the breeding grounds, and hastening over to the place, the birds rose in clouds at our approach, and circling round us, almost within reach of our hands, resented our intrusion by their deafening cries. Every shrub and bush had from two to half a dozen nests on it, all with one egg, on which the hen birds were sitting. On our approach the bird would rise, but in a few minutes would circle round to the nest again, and settle on the egg within three feet of us. Thousands were already hatched, and in all stages of development, and we had to pick our steps to avoid treading on them. The old birds show a strong parental instinct, and resent any interference with their young by cries and savage pecks, but with a little patience they soon become quiet, and will sit beside the young while you place your hand on them. Here and there on clear patches thousands of the young in all stages of growth are gathered together, covering the whole ground, while a few of the older birds hover about them. It looks like a densely packed feathered school, with their teachers in charge. Every here and there are these schools, while on and under every bush there are stragglers apparently playing truant. The noddy terns are about the size of pigeons, with rich chocolate plumage. They take possession of the bushes, while the sooty terns seem to lay their eggs on the bare ground without any attempt at a nest. In parts the ground is so littered with eggs that a foot can hardly be put down without treading on them. They mix freely amongst themselves, and as they rise in flight, every few minutes, they can be compared to nothing better than an immense swarm of bees, covering acres in extent, while their deafening screeches drown every other sound.

In the evening we found the beach and rocks about the jetty literally alive with crayfish, so, baiting one of our fish pots, we threw it over the side, and before bed time had our dinghy half full of fine crustaceans. The young schnapper and whiting bit freely, and we had a good catch, Mr. Randell maintaining his reputation as a piscatorialist.

New Year’s morning broke fine and clear, and most of us spent the fore-noon in further explorations of the island, while our skipper and chef took advantage of the Italians’ hospitable offer of their wood fire on which to boil a dozen or so crayfish. Before noon we bade our friends good-bye and stood out down Zeewych Channel towards Woody Island, some ten miles south. This island seems to derive its name from the fact that two mangrove trees grow in a salt lagoon on it. That is the only sign of wood which it presents. There are a few low shrubs, but on the whole vegetation is scanty. Here considerable quantities of guano have been secured, but the island is now worked out. The island is cut into two by a narrow patch of shoal water, through which we can wade at low tide. Bird life here is almost as numerous as at Rat Island. The western half of Woody Island is a ring of dead coral surrounding a landlocked central lagoon of salt water. The sooty terns’ eggs are scattered all about the margin of this lagoon, and appear to be hatched by the sun’s heat, as we saw none of the birds sitting on the eggs. Almost every limb of the mangrove trees has its noddy tern, and the young are getting about, though unable to fly. On the other half of the island the birds rise in millions, forming a black circling cloud against the sky. The lagoon, though mostly shallow, is in some parts very deep. As we stand on the rocky bank wondering how this could have been formed, without any visible connection with the sea, a turtle of some 300lbs. weight happens slowly along, and raises its head to reconnoitre. On seeing us, he immediately dived and scuttled off for the deep water with astonishing velocity for so ungainly a form.

Our boat was moored to one of the piles which once formed the end of a wooden jetty erected here. We put off to her in the dinghy in time for tea. Some threw out the lines, but Nicholas told us there was no hope of fish there. We did not get a bite.

The wind rose steadily, and by the morning it was blowing a stiff gale, so taking in a reef on the mainsail, we set out for the Pelsart group, some 15 or 20 miles further south. The wind, however, increased, and it was thought advisable to run for shelter into a channel between two bare coral islets near the “Post Office.” Why it is called the “Post Office” it is difficult to understand, for no one lives within miles. On the extremity of one of the islets a beacon of stone has been built, about the size of a sentry box, and it is said that this gave rise to the name. Names are evidently very easily suggested.

We had to beat in to our shelter. The channel is not more than a hundred yards wide, and flanked on either hand by sharp coral rocks, which voraciously bite a hole in the bottom of our boat if we came into contact with them. The islets are forbidding in their aspect, and although oysters are to be had on them, the difficulty of walking over the loose, sharp corals make us glad to return to the boat, where we may get below into shelter from the now howling gale. The anchor drags a few yards now and then over the rocky bottom, and a second is got ready to throw over, but happily the first at last catches a good hold, and keeps us in safety from the fury of the wind.

Square Island, Wreck Point, “Batavia’s Grave,” and Pelsart Island are visible in the distance to the south, but the living gale keeps us weather-bound at our moorings. All Saturday night it howled and whistled through the rigging.

Poor old “Father,” who had hitherto insisted on sleeping on deck, realised with Sir Joseph Porter, in “Pinafore”—

The gale was too much for “Father,” so he joined the others in the hold, as our vessel writhed under the fury of the blast and tugged at her moorings.

Sunday morning broke with the wind unabated. The long, spray-capped ocean rollers could be seen over the top of Pelsart Island, as they thundered over the reefs and churned themselves into seething masses of foam. There was no hope of shifting that day. Nicholas told us it would be madness to attempt to run to Geraldton in the heavy sea which had been lashed up by the southerly gale, and it was hopeless to attempt to beat against that gale to Pelsart or the other historical places we wished to visit. Our bread was run out, and we made puff-de-lunes, but the rolling of the boat was not conducive to the culinary art. The biscuit tin was nearing the bottom, and we were reduced to one biscuit a meal, although we had plenty of tinned meats, and fish and some oysters. The last two bottles of beer were opened as the sun approached the yard-arm, and were skilfully divided amongst the eight of us.

Towards evening the wind lulled, and the sky became overcast, so it was decided that as soon as practicable, we would start for home. Nicholas told us the glass was falling again, and someone remarked that the “Governor of North Carolina” had been finally deposed at 11 o’clock.

By Monday morning the wind had considerably abated, and the sea had gone down a good deal, so that by 10 o’clock it was pronounced safe to face homeward. The anchor was hove, and in a few minutes we were bowling along homeward under a still fresh gale. Showers of spray dashed against the boat and sent most of us below. As we approached the open sea, we found it still running quite as high as we wanted it. It was too rough to think of cooking anything, so dividing a Swallow and Ariel plum pudding amongst us, “Father” and a learned member of the Bar retired to the seclusion of the hold to assiduously cultivate a thirst, which they thought would arrive at maturity by the time we reached Geraldton.At noon, Wizard Peak, Mt. Fairfax, and the Moresby Range hove in view, and by three o’clock our chef shouted down that the lighthouse was visible, and we would be at anchor by half-past four.

Alas for the uncertainties of wind-jamming craft! The breeze which had been gradually dying, forsook us altogether, and we lay helpless, but not motionless, on the heavy billows. We had ample time now to study the geography of the coast line from a distance as we rose and fell from the trough to the crest of the seas. The western horizon was a sea of flame as the sun sank beneath the waves; the stars came out and twinkled mockingly at us to the music of the thudding boom as it jerked the main sheet to the end of the horse; steerage way was lost, and we flopped and floundered round all points of the compass. For seven weary hours we watched the shore. Point Moore light blazed on us in its intermittent flashes, the lights of the town shot their rays across the waters to us as we picked out those of well-known hostelries with which we were so familiar. They only accentuated a thirst which had already arrived at its full maturity, and it was not till near eleven that at last we dropped anchor, and came ashore at the pier, blistered, sunburnt, storm-tossed, but full of life and hope.

Never were higher encomiums passed on the excellent management of the Globe Brewery! Never were more unstinted praise to the tasteful skill of the brewer, as we performed the final act of a ten days’ most enjoyable outing.