Cremorne Point to Mosman Bay Hike

Things have been going so smoothly in this beautiful country that I've been wondering if my posts have started to become boring to anyone other than my mother. Remembering my months living in San Rafael, Costa Rica, I have been  remembering my tales encountering adversity through language barriers, transportation issues, and my host family's demon-dog, Peter. Australia, however, has shaped up incredibly well, leaving me with wonderful days that I fear don't so easily translate into interesting stories. My experience today, however, will allow me to stray from the rut I have been falling into and stretch my writing skills once more. 

I had planned my Sunday well and down to the minute. I was going to wake up at 5 a.m., take a blissful sunrise ferry ride to Cremorne Point, hike to Mosman's Bay, grab a leisurely lunch on the rooftop of the Mosman's Bay Rowing Club, meet a friend in the city for "Xtreme Gelato," bus home to shower, meet some friends at church to assist in planning our small group's "Balcony" (the church after-party), and attend the 5 and 6 p.m. services. What I was given, however, was a reminder that the world is out of my control. 

Responsibly heading to bed early to prepare for my full day, I was abruptly awoken by the noise of a house party. Groggilly popping my ear plugs in and shutting my window, I was surprised to find that those measures did not work to block out the noise. At all. Soon I realized why - the party was at my house! I checked the time: 11 p.m. Voices from the outside made their way to the inside, people were screaming, quickly occupying both the upstairs and the downstairs, leaving the lights on in their wake. I pinched myself - am I back in college? Was this whole Australia trip simply a vivid dream after a long, tiresome finals week? Aren't my nearly 30 year old housemates old enough to know how to have a basic level of decency? Sure enough, to my dismay I discovered this was, in fact, reality. I sighed with acceptance and opened a book, the understanding washing over me that I would not be getting to sleep for a while, and thus not taking a sunrise ferry, after all. 

However perplexed I felt, I became an equal amount happy upon realizing that, while it had trickled down to midnight my time, it was 7 a.m. U.S. time! I quickly took a moment to ponder if my brain could function well enough to hold any sort of meaningful conversation, decided to take the risk and called my parents. After short chats with each, I hoped it was socially acceptable timing and called my grandparents, also. It was the highlight of my day to speak with them, and caused me to feel glad for the house party allowing me the opportunity to be awake at the same time. There was even mention of them joining me in Fiji next year (I heard you, grandma!) which I would LOVE. 

Hours later, the people left and I was able to fall back asleep (other than my good night's sleep, I later discovered a devastating casualty of a chocolate bar I had in my pantry). Soon the morning came and I decided I wouldn't let the selfish actions of others ruin my day. I dragged myself out of bed, excited to embark on the first part of my adventure - the Cremorne Point to Mosman's Bay hike! 

Along my bus trip, an Asian family with, say, ten children under the age of five trickled in, accompanied by two parents and an elderly grandmother. Noting the full bus, I immediately stood up and my seat was occupied by three of the children and the grandmother. (Tangent time: I never cease to be dismayed by the non-country-specific phenomenon of individuals not standing for others on the bus. Young people not standing for elders; men not standing for women; anyone in the bus not standing for someone juggling several bags of groceries. It is a simple action that can make a big impact on someone's day. I challenge every reader to stand for someone on public transportation this week and see if the feeling of causing a wake of goodness in your community, however small, outweighs the minor discomfort of standing. I bet it will.) 

Soon I noticed a young boy, perhaps 7 years old, who seemed to have been forgotten by his adult keepers and was standing in the area clearly marked "No standing," and leaning against the inward-opening doors, which seemed like a bad idea. Feeling as though I should step in, as his parents clearly had their hands full and I wasn't convinced he could read the English warning signs, I offered to share my holding pole with him in the safe zone. Upon his refusal I advised him to be careful, as the doors open inward. I was able to herd him towards me just as the doors automatically opened into a formation that would have undoubtedly crushed his small body, or in the very least caused everyone involved a good scare. A day's work completed, I hopped off the bus and headed towards the ferry station.

"Excuse me," I heard a voice call and felt someone touching my arm. Turning around, I discovered an older man was speaking to me. Wondering if I am local enough yet to give directions, I was shocked as he began to commend me on my actions in the bus with words so kind they gave me goosebumps. I assume he must have been sitting near enough to see me stand up for the family and help the child. Not knowing how to respond to such a sentiment, I was so taken aback that I simply thanked the man repeatedly, telling him his compliment made my day. That conversation put more of a spring in my step than the large latte I ordered to accompany me through my travels. It also reminded me of the life lesson that positive reinforcement cures more ails than negative - you can scold, say, a child, a dog, or an employee so many times, but the moment you give them a treat, a raise or a simple pat on the back they will tend to be more inclined to work harder. I'll never sit on the bus again.

I took a ferry ride into Cremorne Point; the sparkling Sydney waters of never cease to put a blissful smile on my face. Stepping off the boat, I was relieved to find a blatantly marked path and set off, quickly noticing the trail featured the beauty of bushland combined with the relaxation of walking along the water. This is my kind of Sunday. 

The path soon ended at "Cremorne Point Reserve." As my end destination was planned to be Mosman's Bay, I did what any good tourist would do: I waited until a sweaty man walked by, clearly out exercising, and followed him through the city, hoping he too would be embarking on the second part of the hike and could lead me to the path connection. After a few minutes of hiking, however, I gained the distinct impression that he, in fact, was not headed towards the path, and his increasingly frequent over-the-shoulder glances led me to believe he was becoming suspicious of my behavior. Disappointed that what I thought to be a clever strategy had failed, I let him travel alone into the distance, finding myself at a four-way crossroads, none of which specified the way to Mosman's Bay. 

Opening my Google Maps, the voice of Siri's unnamed competitor led me through residential neighborhoods and families' backyards until, sure enough, I had landed back onto the beaten path. 

After another short stretch of hiking, I discovered the rest of the hiking trail was blocked off due to construction, but a ferry station was easily accessible that would get me to my intended destination. As my latte began to remind me of its presence, I hopped onto the ferry upon its arrival and made a b-line to the bathroom. Within an unbelievably short amount of time I felt the ferry slow. How long was this trip? It couldn't have been longer than a minute or so. Panicking as I began to confirm that we had already reached the destination, I rushed to grab my belongings and charged out of the bathroom towards the exit. As I was about to hop off, reaching the queue just as the last of the passengers were leaving, I realized I couldn't find my phone. Yes - my phone that holds my credit cards, public transportation pass, identification, and is the force behind my lifeline - Google maps. "Slow is smooth and smooth is fast," I thought, imagining the voice of Modern Family's Phil Dunphey speaking to me as I threw my backpack onto a chair and frantically began dumping everything out. As people had commenced exiting and a new wave of tourists were now entering the ferry, I confirmed my phone was not in the bag. And so my nightmare became reality as I began serving as the in-boat entertainment, lapping back and forth from the entrance to the bathrooms, wondering where it could have possibly gone.

'Which bathroom did I go in?!' I began to psych myself out, 'Did I push the door open or did I pull??' 

When the ferry driver could no longer wait for me, it started off to the next destination as I continued retracing my steps, over and over, my phone being nowhere to be found. People started helping me, even offering to call my U.S. number (to no avail, as I keep my phone on airplane mode to conserve the battery). "The only place I've been was the bathroom!" I kept telling people, wondering where it could possibly be. Low and behold, it had been stolen. As we were arriving at the next stop I wondered how I was going to get home, having lost all of my most crucial possessions simultaneously. Suddenly an elderly woman came forward holding my phone up in the air, my mind picturing it glowing brighter than a golden ticket and imagining angels singing harmoniously in the background. Apparently she had picked it up on the bathroom shelf before I had realized it was missing and embarked on my desperate search, having intention of turning it in to the ferry crew back in Sydney. After "rescuing" it, she then proceeded to sit on the top deck to score a seat in the sun, where she was unable to see my hysteria. I gave her a big hug, and my endless string of thank you's were interrupted by the ferry attendant telling me I had better get off or they were going to leave again. I could almost see the narration of his thoughts painted across his face: "Bloody Yank." I imagined his tone would be serious, featuring a hint of comedic pity. Elated that my crisis had been averted, I hopped off the ferry, thus ending the show, and realized I was right back on the same platform I had loaded the ferry from in the first place. 

A local advised me of a walking path, and I ventured along and finally reached the beautiful Mosman's Bay. I sat on a bench to write, but soon as the wind began to pick up and the clouds began to darken I figured I had better start heading back towards home.

Arriving back in Baulkham Hills in time to attend the 6 p.m. church service, allowing me the opportunity to hear a sermon so brilliant that, coupled with exhaustion, it caused me to experience the full emotional spectrum throughout the hour and a half - often simultaneously. I mark the day up to a success. 

Cockatoo Island

As I am unsure of how many weekend days I have left in this beautiful city before I embark on my Melbourne adventures (after a brief holiday in Canada), I have entered a phase I like to call "Extreme touristing," where I am cramming as many activities into each day as my energy will allow. 

This morning I planned to explore Sydney Harbour's largest island, the empty-land-turned-prison-turned-girls'-school-turned-shipyard-turned-tourist-area called Cockatoo Island. Hearing about the island as a popular venue for events such as church retreats, paired with Lonely Island's review stating it is "One of the world's most spectacularly located campsites," I eagerly packed my sunscreen and hat, excited to purchase an informational audio walking tour and learn about the intriguing lives of the convicts as I explored the island. 

(Picture from www.sydney.com) 

Viewing advertisement pictures such as the one above, I imagined I would find an exotic island covered in trees, humming with the sounds of birds (perhaps Cockatoos?) and overall experiencing a beautiful, magical place, as I find most of Sydney's destinations to be. I was surprised, however, to step off the boat and onto bland, militant/ prison-esque grounds. It felt as though I was entering the real-life version of Shutter Island, the Leonardo DiCaprio movie. (Fun fact: the film was actually shot in Massachusetts.) 

I was then hit with the second setback of the day by discovering the audio tours, which detail the lives of individual prisoners, had sold out by a large group reservation. Bummer!

I took a moment to ponder taking the ferry back into the city and embarking on another activity, saving the island for another day, but I figured Google could tell me sufficient information about the island's history. As I have limited weekend time left in Sydney, I decided to trek on. 

Cockatoo Island is certainly a fascinating place. Discovered by Europeans (one of the few sites they can take credit for, as they did not poach this particular piece of land from Aboriginals), it opened as a Convict Penal Establishment in 1839 which lasted until 1869. The prison hosted criminals labeled as the worst-of-the-worst, often second- or third-time offenders. Pictures displayed inmates to appear savage and possessed, hardly recognisable as human beings. The prisoners are said to have lived in terrible conditions: the 300-capacity stone rooms were packed with 500 offenders, and the meat they were shipped was often so old it would have to be thrown out. They were supplied two meagre meals a day, and had to pay for a third portion out-of-pocket, with money earned through hard labor, if they were extra hungry. Prisoners were not taught by positive reinforcement, either. In 2009, an archeological dig on the island uncovered convict-era punishment cells under the kitchen. Woah. 

While most prisoners did not have the ability to swim, thus making escape from the island impossible, there is one success story backed by no substantial physical evidence, but is spoken of as truth. In 1856 Frederick Ward was sentenced to seven years in the Cockatoo Island prison for stealing horses. In 1863, it is said that his wife, Mary, swam to the island and delivered tools he could use to escape. Two days later, Frederick and his mate, Fred Britton, used the tools to break free and make it to the ocean. While Fred drowned, Frederick successfully swam across, where Mary is said to have been waiting for him with a fast white steed. Living under the alias "Captain Thunderbolt," Frederick wreaked havoc on New South Wales until he was shot dead by police in 1870. (I have to wonder, why would Frederick choose to partake in a risky escape the very year he was set to be released? Perhaps pride? Perhaps some elements of the story were lost in translation? Perhaps it is just that, a mythical ghost story told in children's camps while roasting s'mores, the storyteller shining a flashlight under their chin? Either way, I find the tale fascinating.) 

In 1869 the prison was shut down, and a few years later in 1871 a girls' school opened called Biloela. The school was comprised of two sub-divisions; the Biloela Public Industrial School was for girls who had been orphaned or neglected, and the Biloela Reformation School was for girls who had broken the law. There was one major flaw in the organisational system: the two schools were bunked together! Severely abused children and impressionable orphans would be living amongst petty criminals. The girls were treated like animals; they were locked in dark stone cellars for 12 hours each night, forced to lap water out of communal troughs, and we're not given silverware to eat with. Punishment was also severe. Often girls would have their beds removed, forcing them to sleep on cold, hard, dirty stone. One story detailed a teacher unlocking the girls one morning and noticed they had carved pictures in the walls. (what else were they supposed to do with 12 hours to kill?) He beat them and smashed their faces and hair against the stone to rub off the artwork. I reminisced on my childhood, remembering when my third grade teacher tore up my quiz for doodling in the margins, and thinking that punishment was cruel and unusual. A little perspective goes a long ways.

Additional havoc was wreaked on the iand when a young men's school for shipbuilding moved in across the island, and as you might imagine, all Hell broke loose.

The schools were re-located in 1888, and the island once again became a prison that accepted overflow from other jails, once again providing in-humane conditions. Finally, in 1908 the prison was permanently shut down. 

In 1913, the island was morphed into one of Australia's biggest shipyards, which was maintained until 1991, serving a stint as the Naval Dockyard of the Royal Australian Navy. The first of its two dry docks was built by convicts, as most infrastructure on the island was. The shipbuilding portion of its history is what caused the United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organisation, UNESCO, to list Cockatoo Island as a World Heritage Site, meaning a place with cultural/ physical significance. 

Now, Cockatoo Island is a thriving tourist location. It hosts frequent venues, and is littered with tents for people to enjoy a few days camping. While I found walking through the island eery, kids seem to love the vast openness, allowing them to scooter, bike, and run free while their parents enjoy a glass of wine overlooking the ocean. There is even a preserved tennis court that was made for the Governor of the prison that people are allowed to use, boasting some of the best views in Sydney. 

 

A historical day ended with an afternoon in the Sydney Museum learning about the faces behind the names of the city's various streets and buildings, a thankful prayer that I was born in the 20th century, and a good night's sleep on my queen-size, cozy bed. 

Cronulla Beach

My days in Sydney are starting to become fairly routine: work Monday through Friday, long hike on Saturday - a pleasant break from sitting at my desk job all week - and then relax on Sunday before attending an evening church service at Hillsong (followed by, of course, the church after-party). 

This Saturday I slept in until 6:30 a.m. - a treat from my usual 5 a.m. weekday mornings - threw on a maxi dress and set off to Cronulla beach, located about an hour train ride south of Sydney. 

On my way out the door, rushing to catch the bus, I took a moment and quickly pondered whether or not to bring my hat and sunglasses. Usually as much of a staple to my ensemble as my phone and credit card, the weather forecast stated it would be cool and rainy, thus deeming the items unnecessary. It can be a bit of a hassle to lug around many things, especially on a long hike, so I made the whimsical decision to leave them home. Needless to say I am writing this blog post among the adversity of feeling needle-like pain on every inch of my skin. I have learned the hard way to never underestimate the power of the Australian sun!

Arriving at Cronulla had a different feel than previous beaches I have visited; it seemed to be more of a local spot than the tourist-heavy population I have previously encountered. Surfers were abundant, either in the water catching waves or taking a break under tents with barbecues, eating hot dogs, lamb, steaks, and other meals to rejuvenate their energy for the next round.

 

I believe Cronulla has a feminine appearance, featuring light sand decorated with white seagulls wandering about, crisp blue ocean water creating the quiet, peaceful sound of waves. Its quietness and simple, natural beauty make Cronulla a place I would like to live, if I were to settle down in Sydney.

I easily spotted the walking trail - the pavement featured clear markings to remind hikers to walk on the left side of the path, which was helpful. 

As I was mosying along, allowing my mind to sync with the ocean waves, shielding the blinding sun with the back of my hand, I spotted a lookout point where people could stand on an elevated area to view the beach in its entirety. I noticed the path didn't lead to the point; rather, after a short stretch of grass, sand led the way to the lookout. Concerned about getting dirt inside my shoes, therefore making it uncomfortable to hike, I decided the risk would be worth the reward and embarked onto the grass portion. Suddenly I heard a loud, panicked scream of a surfer - especially alarming as those are not a surfer's general characteristics - "WATCH THE SNAKE!!!!" I froze, mid-step, wobbling as I tried to catch my balance, unsure of where to place my right foot that was floating in the air. Following where the surfer was pointing, I spotting the snake a few feet away, slithering along in the midst of a public beach like he owned the place. I slowly backed up until I was once again cement-bound. "Sorry to scare you, but I think that's a fairly dangerous one." The man chuckeled as he headed - on the path - towards the ocean. A quick Google search led me to discover that I had just encountered a Red Belly Black Snake, and "Its venom is capable of causing significant morbidity." Below is the picture I took once I had returned to the safety of the path, and a picture from the Australia Zoo's website to get a better view. 

I noticed the irony how, while I was most worried about wandering through the sand, the grass is what really could have killed me. Food for thought.

Nevertheless, I stood on the path for several minutes, eager to experience the viewpoint but now worried about what lurked in the grass. Watching as person after person successfully made their way to the lookout, my resolve strengthened and, taking slow, intentional steps, I finally made it to the point. 

The end of the path featured giant sand dunes that doubled as an off leash dog park, and an amazing exercise opportunity. I pondered the idea of running up and down the sand, as I spotted a few women attempting, but I realized - especially as I was traveling alone - there would be no one to dial 000, the national emergency number, during my attempt to make it to the top. I figured I would stick to the path.

After the hike I stopped off at a restaurant and ordered a yummy lunch time sandwich. An elderly couple sat beside me, and we naturally got to chatting. They were interested to hear how I created my life in Australia and I was eager to hear about their travels to Africa. We had an excellent conversation, the kind of dialogue that allows a traveler to say they have "Met some interesting people." I eventually set off back towards the beach to sit in tranquility for a short while before catching the train back home. 

    

Another great day in paradise!

Manly Beach

This Saturday I chose to venture over to Manly Beach, a popular tourist attraction I was eager to visit. 

A suburb of Sydney, I took a ferry in which allowed me the luxury of another beautiful trip.

Manly was discovered in 1778, is the birthplace of surfing, and one of the world's five surfing reserves. Fittingly, travelers from all over the world visit to hit the waves. Fun fact - Manly received its name after the governor saw indigenous tribesman on the island and viewed them as being strong and manly. 

I had been informed prior to visiting that people who move to Manly tend to never leave. Upon stepping off the ferry, I could instantly see why: it has everything you need! Hundreds of restaurants, clothing shops, grocery stores and surf shops lined the road, and the air just had an indescribable smell of peace, mellowness and tranquility. The city instantly transitions a person into a vacation-esque bliss.

Easily spotting a trail, I joined the many hikers and joggers and began to mosy down the path, trying to remember to stay on the left side of the path - this task increasingly as a struggle as my mind began to wander. As my appearance doesn't allow a stranger to easily identify me as a foreigner, if I obstruct traffic I look less like a tourist and more like a selfish young person, so I have to watch myself. 

The end of the trail landed me at Shelley Beach, which is one of the only west-facing beaches on the east coast. I'll have to stay long enough to watch the sunset one of these days. Shelley was beautiful, but due to its boutique size I didn't stay long - there's not much to do if you're not swimming or eating. 

After Shelley Beach I strolled back over through Manly, and soon found myself walking along the Manly Lagoon. To my surprise, I liked this area better than the beach, because I discovered it serves as a dog beach! Tens of dogs swarmed the area, happily swimming and splashing in the waves. I watched for a bit, wishing my own puppy was here, but viewing a sign warning visitors about water pollution reminded me of the potentially dangerous Australian water conditions, and I decided I was glad he's home safe in California. Circling the edge of the lagoon, I had covered enough land to suffice as a day's exercise, and headed home. 

Another beautiful day in paradise.