g. A ‘word picture’: Fitzroy island (far north Queensland Australia)

David and I recently escaped winter in South Australia for ten days when we took our four children (aged 6 - 19) to Fitzroy Island for a holiday.

Fitzroy Island is a beautiful tropical island off the coast of Cairns in far north Queensland. The island is covered with garden-like rainforest; the beach is covered with dazzling white coral; and the ocean is filled with tropical fish and a coral reef as part of the Great Barrier Reef. There’s also a trampoline from which you can bounce into the sea!

Bliss. Warm summery bliss.

David and I have elderly patients in our medical clinic who migrate north during the South Australian winter - every year! ‘Grey nomads’ they’re called. They wave ‘goodbye’ to us and say, ‘Your time will come’. Then they get into their camper-vans and drive north, with all the other grey nomads from the southern Australian cities, leaving us younger workers to shiver and catch colds and dream of warm weather.

Well, finally David and I could wait for ‘our time’ no longer. We joined our grey nomad patients and escaped to the tropics during the coldest and most miserable part of South Australia’s winter this year. Also, it was during the school holidays so the kids could escape with us.

When I go on holidays, I don’t tend to take many photos.  Actually, I rarely take photos these days at all.

In the past I took stacks of photos and home-movies.  David took hardly any - and he still doesn’t - so given that I’m always behind the camera, looking at our photo-albums it appears that our kids have no mother. 

However, gradually it dawned on me that I while I was taking my photos and filming - I was separate to the events I was observing. I was excluded from all the laughter, the hugs, the playing … the fun. I became just a distant  observer behind a lens.

Eventually, I decided that I needed to choose between the quality of my photography or my memories.  Focusing more on one would diminish the other.  Although, it wasn’t completely an either/or situation. (I only ever considered reducing my photos - not eliminating them altogether).

So, after minimal consideration (as I’d mostly made up my mind one Christmas morning when I felt disappointed that I missed most of the fun by standing behind a movie-camera for half the day) - I chose to improve the quality of my memories and put my camera aside to a large extent.

I now take very few photos.

I snap a few shots - mainly of my family (I can buy professional photos of the scenery in the souvenir booklets and postcards) - then I ditch the camera and dive into the fun.

For me this is better.

And I never take any ‘selfies’!  And I never take any photos just to ‘impress’ anyone.  My friends don’t need impressing - and anyone who does need impressing is not my friend.

This year I did decide to take pictures of my time in the tropics, although my ‘pictures’ were not taken with a camera (other than just a couple of photos of the kids and David). Images of the island and the reef can be easily Googled or purchased in tourist booklets and post-cards - and those pictures are far better than anything I could take.

No, this time my ‘pictures’ were mostly taken using words. As I sat on the coral beach looking out to sea, or in the shade of the giant palm-trees of the rainforest, I took ‘pictures’ with my pen and notebook.

So here are a few of my ‘pictures’. Maybe something you could do sometime.  Through writing what you see and feel - you get to experience the event at a deeper level. You become more aware of everything around you. More engaged in it all. And, with that, whenever you read your words again the lovely memories will feel even more vivid and powerful and happy:

So, here’s my ‘word picture’ capturing memories of one time period on the island:




The island:

The breeze is warm and soothing.  It carries with it the regular sound of tinkling - like pieces of porcelain knocking together - as each wave rolls over the masses of coral covering the beach.

Small boats bob and roll on the shimmering water; they’re anchored but seem restless to sail away on some great adventure.

I walk along the beach.  The coral is hard and sharp like broken pieces of plastic - so sandals or thongs are essential. The water is clear and calm. I watch people all around me having fun:  Children and teenagers are jumping into the ocean from a trampoline situated 50 meters from the shore. Others are gliding across the water in kayaks, or standing on paddle boards (which remind me of gondolas) pulling at the water with a long single oar, or snorkelling in the reef.

I decide to join them.  My husband, David, and our children are all out enjoying the ocean activities already. I notice two of my children yelping as they jump off the trampoline and, with their knees folded up to their chests and wrapped in their arms, they do ‘bombs’ into the water creating the biggest splash they can.

I throw my towel onto the dazzling white coral and sit down to push my feet into my flippers and attach my face mask and snorkel.  I then waddle backwards into the sea feeling incredible clumsy and awkward. However, walking backwards is easier than trying to walk forward.

The water is refreshing and cool. It’s perfect on this humid 28C day. I lean into the water and stretch forward … and now I’m gliding. I’m graceful as a fish, unlike the awkward duck waddle on the shore.

I notice the tropical fish. There are so many swimming around me. Green. Blue. Red. All different sizes; some as large as a shoe-box while others are tiny. And they’re so trusting and tame. They swim right up to my hands and I can move through schools of them. 

As I swim across the reef, my arms outstretched before me and my legs kicking behind, I feel like I’m flying high above a coral landscape. Its a beautiful garden filled with so many different shapes and patterns of coral; some even move like a shaggy coat to-and-fro with the water. In other areas,  the garden falls away steeply into dark valleys filled with boulders and larger fish darting in and out.

Moving through this strange new environment I feel both thrilled and a little anxious. I wonder whether there might be sharks here. I also worry about accidentally swimming too far out to sea; distracted by this wonderful world below the surface I might forget to keep track of time and the distance I’ve swum.

I decide to stop swimming and I lift my face out of the water.  It’s a little windy and the waves are choppier out here - 100 meters or so from the shore. Another snorkeller calls out to me and waves, ‘Alice!’ he shouts. He’s pointing to the sea floor. ‘Alice! Here!’ I stare at him unmoving. He then realizes his mistake. I’m not his ‘Alice’. He apologises and asks if I would like to look at his finding anyway. I swim over and try to see what he’s pointing at. I can’t. Whatever it is, it’s camouflaged.  I can only see tan boulders. I thank him and swim over to the other members of my family all snorkelling about 50 meters from me.

‘I’m going in,’ I call and signal with my arms. My teenage daughter nods and gives me the thumbs up.

I kick back to shore dodging boulders like a hang-glider avoiding cliffs and hills; soaring over the coral sea-bed and deep valleys like I’m flying above a strange landscape of forests and hills; and swimming among schools of fish like I’m flying with flocks of colourful birds. It feels liberating and exciting.

I soon arrive at the beach. I trip and stumble as the waves throw me forward onto the coral. I manage to stand up again and walk from the water.  I feel so clumsy on the land wearing flippers. I can’t remove them yet because the coral is sharp and painful to walk on with bare feet. So I turn around and walk backwards to my towel.

I enjoy the warmth of the late afternoon sun. I’m not at all cold. I don’t need my towel to get dry - so I just sit on it. It’s toasty-warm like it’s fresh from a dryer.

I look out to sea.  The sunlight is shimmering and dancing across the rough water. My gaze extends further out to the distant islands which rise steeply from the ocean, blue mountains across the horizon.

The sky is empty and azure. I enjoy the moment. I soak it all up. The joy. Living in that very moment.
Eventually, I pick up my snorkel, face-mask, flippers, and towel and I leave the beach.

As I walk back through the resort, I marvel at the beauty of dozens of candles casting a flickering yellow light onto each white linen table-cloth on the many tables scattered about the Pacific Islands bar.

The bar is situated on the beach front behind a thin line of palm trees and tropical flowering bushes. The dwelling has no walls - which is so obviously a tropical thing. In the southern towns and cities of Australia - in the temperate climates - a building with no walls would be completely impractical; it would be far too cold for many months of the year. Yet here, in the tropics, it’s perfect. The temperature varies little and it is almost always warm. So, the only elements from which a building is required to give protection are the sun and the rain. A roof is therefore all that is needed. 

So, the bar is comprised of simply large wooden beams supporting an expansive dark polished-wood roof stretching across the restaurant, the pool tables, the dance floor, and the surrounding verandahs. Ceiling fans add to the ambience and move the humid air refreshing the patrons scattered about enjoying drinks, food, conversation and laughter.

Music is playing on the sound system: It’s Nirvana singing ‘Teen Spirit’. It’s not too loud - people can easily hear each other chat, but it’s loud enough to allow the melody, the beat, and the words to sweep through me and immerse my soul in the pleasure of this place.

Further along, at the resort centre, blue lights wash over the water of the swimming pool. The marbled light shimmers and moves in the water and reflects off smooth white walls containing it. A waterfall gushes at one end.

Couples, young families, middle-aged groups - sigh and relax and soak in the beauty all around: the ocean; the last moments of the day before the sun finally disappears below the horizon; the moon and a faint canopy of stars in the darkening navy sky which heralds the arrival of the evening.

I become aware that I am existing in a part of my brain in which I rarely linger: My right brain. 

This tropical paradise has pulled me away from my busy life filled with logic and lists and words and time … into one where words and lists are not necessary; time is irrelevant; and I am acutely aware of existing in the moment mindful of the world around me:

The soft caress of the breeze on my skin; the aromas of cooking - bar-b-ques, spices, roasting meats; the sweet scents of flowers and the salty smell of the ocean; the sounds of birds and music and people laughing and talking; the beautiful colours of the sea and the forest and the sky; a deep appreciation of the peace and happiness I feel in my quiet self.

I walk back to my holiday cottage from the beach. I notice the bright cheerful summer clothes of the other holiday-makers and the resort staff.  They saunter about in shorts, t-shirts, mini-dresses, straw hats, thongs and sandals. It is all so different from the raincoats and scarves and dark dreary colours of Adelaide before we flew here days earlier.
 
It’s a short walk to the cottage, about 100 meters, from the resort bar along a dirt trail through the rainforest. Along the way I cross a wooden bridge which stretches across a meandering river.  The river has originated high in the mountains behind the resort and it is travelling into the ocean nearby.  As I lean over the smooth railing my gaze follows the tropical fish which swim just below the surface. I look up and, through the foliage, I can see the ocean.

I continue on. The rainforest is lush and green. The canopy of leaves high above filter most of the light leaving the trail dark and cool. Giant butterflies waft across my path. I deviate from the main path and walk through a small gate to the forest path leading to our cottage. I climb the few stairs to the decking which looks out across the sea out to the islands and the sunset.  I decide to make coffee and come out here directly. 

There is no rush. 

I have no watch. I don’t know the time - other than the fact that it’s nearly ‘dinner time’ and David and the kids will be returning soon. That’s all I need to know. Who cares about the ‘actual’ time in hours and minutes. What difference does that make here? 

Already I feel at home and part of this timeless and peaceful island.

I decide that I must return to this place next winter - like my patients who migrate north every year - I will come back and remember again how it feels to leave my busy life.

I can see now why my patients smile with delight as they say ‘goodbye’ before they head north. But my time has finally come to join them.


                                               *


So, that’s my little ‘word picture’ of  Fitzroy island 'taken' on my recent holiday there.  

I bought a tourist book filled with actual photos of the place:  the rainforest, the resort, the coral reef.  And, I took a few photos of the kids and David.  But most importantly I had a wonderful time and it wasn’t so that I could show anyone what it looked like - it was to enjoy. 

I stepped out from behind my camera and lived it all!