The shark is harder to see now, just a vague dark shape in the water about ten metres offshore.   It seems to know that today is not its day.  No easy meal of man-flesh, washed into the deep by the raging current.

We’re at Fingal Bay for a few days with our extended Canadian and Australian family.  When the Canadians visit, it’s always a logistical problem to get everyone in the same place at the same time.   Fingal Bay, that quiet little spot just north of Newcastle is the ideal solution – sun (when it’s not raining), surf (but not too big for a toddler) and enough sand to ensure both the washer and the dryer are clogged for a week.  Ah, feel the serenity.

It’s about 9:30 AM.  Everyone assembles outside the holiday units for the exhausting five-minute trek down to the beach.  Quick head count.  Yep – six adults and seven kids – oh, that one’s not ours – right – six adults and six kids.  Across the little road and down the rough track to the sand.  All the kids race into the water.  The adults dip their toes, decide it’s way too cold for anyone over 12 to even consider immersion, then fall into the monotonous routine of all adults with kids in the water – “Don’t go out to far!” – “Stop trying to drown your sister!” – “You should have gone before we left home!” – and so forth.

It’s now 10:00 AM. Steve, Dave and I are standing on a narrow spit of sand at the other end of the bay, having told the ladies we were just off for a “quick walk along the beach.”  I’m regretting not bringing my camera today.  The view from the sand spit, which separates our little bay from the wider ocean, is quite amazing.  The only interruption to the beauty is a huge sign that warns, in great big letters, that you MUST NOT cross the sand spit to the nearby island if there is ANY water over the spit.  The sign goes on to say that you will inevitably be swept out to sea – and die.  I look at Dave, who looks at Steve – “fair enough”. The water across the spit is only about knee deep, and there’s an area that definitely looks shallower that the rest. What’s more, there’s at least a fifty-fifty chance that the tide is running out rather than in.

A short time later, we’ve managed to cross the treacherous sand and reached the aptly named Shark Island. Steve looks at the scrubby hillside. “I wonder where that track goes?”

Only one way to find out.

Half-way up the steep track, I have two thoughts – “forget the camera, I wish I’d brought a defibrillator” and “I hate all fit people (watching the disappearing backs of my two companions).  Anyways, we all finally conquer the hill and decide, if we’ve come this far, we might as well see what’s on the other side of the small island.

Much to Dave’s surprise, we don’t encounter any snakes, spiders (well – only a few that were big enough to be scary), or any other forms of venomous wildlife along the bush track.  At last, we’re greeted by another amazing vista on the ocean side of the island. There’s a lighthouse that was built back in the days when sandstone was cheap, and labour was even cheaper, and sweeping views of rugged coast and islands to the north and south.  Once again, I wish I had my camera. Fortunately, Dave and Steve have fancy phones which they assure me can take pictures, so all should be ok.

We stop for a few happy snaps, then it’s time to retrace our steps along the track and back down the steep hillside path.  We’re in luck!  The tide has receded and the water across the spit has dropped to the point where we’re confident we can cross without fear of imminent disaster.  Then, we spot the shark.  It’s cruising along the shore on the ocean side of the little channel, no doubt waiting for some human dumb enough to ignore the warnings on that big sign we saw earlier.

At last, we reach the spot where the last channel of low tide water is surging across the spit. Dave looks concerned.  “That’s a pretty big shark out there.  It wouldn’t be able to swim in this shallow channel would it?” Steve considers for a bit. “Nah.  And besides, it’s nothing compared to the trouble we’re going to be in when we get back. Have you looked at the time?”  We look.  Oh, have we really been away that long?  Then Steve pronounces the clincher – “I promised the ladies we’d take them somewhere nice for lunch.”

Once again, I wish I was just, well, a lot fitter.  This is going to be a really, really long sprint along the beach.

It’s a short walk to the beach

That white beach in the distance looks interesting

The view from the spit is amazing

Up and over the mountain

Look – up in the sky

At last the end is in sight

Built in 1859

The loo once had a view

Now – we just have to cross the spit again