I will be the first to 'fess up and admit that I had my reservations about spending a month at Red Bluff. It looked a desolate, somewhat harsh place from some of the pictures I had seen and people had told me dire tails of not being able to even swim off the beach because of the giant shore break, constant sharks and spiky reef. Not only that, but it was 120 km from shops, showers and sweeties - a 4 hr round trip for the groceries. However, this spot had enjoyed a treasured place in Tom's dreams for 13 years and now he had a chance to fulfil them. Also, our long time friend, Ritchy Smith, whom we had not seen since he bravely struck out west for a life of shearing, harvesting and adventure 3 years ago, had scored the job of assistant caretaker for the camp and we were really excited to catch up with him again. So we stocked up on water, alcohol and chocolate biccies in Carnarvon and loaded our car til it was groaning with the marvellously fresh produce that was suddenly within our greedy grasp. Then we bumped our way past the blowholes, past Quobba Homestead until eventually, painfully, we limped the van over the viscious corrugations that welcomed us to the Bluff. The hostility of the road was smoothed out somewhat by the view that greeted us as we crested the last rise before the camp itself. The Indian Ocean, airbrushed by the offshore to a velvety blue, cloaked around the imposing promontory that marked the end of the road. Sheltered and cradled by the cliff, the cup shaped bay looked impossibly perfect, a view enhanced by the sight of two breaching whales only 50 m from shore.
We made camp just as the sun was sinking and for the first time on weeks, managed to sit down and have a sundowner. It occurred to me that after 15 months on the road, this was only the second camp we'd had where we could actually watch the surf as it rolled up and broke on the rocky shelf, a scant 20 Metres away. Bliss.