Patagonia

“And the sea will grant each man new hope, as sleep brings dreams.”

Brian Bienke opens his autobiographical Prawners Down Under with this quote, attributed to another audacious seafarer, Christopher Columbus. There’s a lot not to admire about Columbus – but I can see him eye-to-eye on this one. The expansive ocean innately moves us. It always has. At the most elemental level, it’s where we all came from.

We currently have an oil problem that is threatening the ocean’s wellbeing, but it isn’t the first time.

Before electricity, it was whale oil that illuminated the homes of our North American and European ancestors. The clean burning oil allowed them nocturnal productivity, and a bright halo of safety. In Australia, blubber was commonly used in dog food, soap, and to grease the machinations of the Industrial Revolution. Free whale meat was abundant during whaling season, and many families made ends meet by eating it. The fat from redblack whale steaks likely clung to the old paint of our kitchen.

Whale products became an integral part of everyday life, until whale populations became scarce. Australia’s East Coast humpback population was hunted down to around 100 individual whales.

As whale oil faded out of availability and acceptability, thanks to the concerted efforts of activists and governments, another ocean resource took over: petroleum. The fossilised remains of algae and plants from Earth’s ancient ocean, fired and compacted over time, now power modern life.

As a species, we’ve used fossil fuels for millennia: in ancient Egypt, Mesopotamia and what we now call Syria. As early as 500BC, people in China transported crude oil and gas in bamboo pipelines and burned it for heat and light.

The season of modest harvest turned around 1865, when the enthusiastic young spirit of capitalism found its rocket fuel – petroleum and natural gas – which, over the past century-and-a-half, have been woven into nearly every aspect of our lives, from clothing to fuel, computers to transport, baby bottles to dentures.

The commercialisation and scaling of petro-capitalism has landed us in our current predicament: a well-oiled machine fanging us into climate debacle. No hands on the wheel, fishtailing over the foundations of life as we know it.

But oil alone was never the problem. In the cases of both whale and crude oil, the root of the rotten fruit is choices. Collective choices, and how our cultures – economic, political, industrial, scientific – normalise those choices. Or not.

Columbus – and probably Brian Bienke – couldn’t have imagined that we could so fundamentally change the vast ocean of our planet. That we are capable of extinguishing species and altering the chemistry of its waters.

Whaling ended here in Byron in 1962, and Brian went back to boat building and fishing work. By 1986, there was a global moratorium to (temporarily) ban commercial whaling. It was scientifically unanimous that whales were being hunted toward extinction, and that we needed to make different choices to allow them to survive.

We knew better, and so we did better.

Ten minutes from our place, and I’m in the glistening waters of Cape Byron Marine Park. The wind is fluffing northerly, and the sun is late-winter-low, casting sparkles over the bay. Little turquoise wavelets peel down the point, and a giggle bubbles out of me – the excitement and invitation of a stunning seascape.

Sitting out wide, I look back toward town, to where the old jetty used to jut 650 metres into the bay. A fever of hopeful learners on foamies blockade the inside section – no doubt having the best surfing day of their lives. We are all gathered here to play, as people have for a very long time.

Local cream-carrier George Morrison married the Bienke’s daughter, June. At 77, he was asked about what kind of fun they had as kids in Byron Bay. “We usta’ bloody just run out on the jetty and… dive on ‘em, and they’d go like buggery. And they always went out to sea, and then they’d turn around and come back. And by that time, we’d be back up the pile again (laughs). But that was one of our greatest bloody bits of fun, jumpin’ on the sharks.”

It was a different time, but then, as now, the ocean was grocery, spectacle, and playground.

In 2023, these waters off Byron were designated as an international Hope Spot, Australia’s 11th recognition by Sylvia Earle’s NGO Mission Blue.

Marine biologist Alice Forrest – along with Dr. Elizabeth Hawkins, Founder and CEO of Dolphin Research Australia – was instrumental in the official Hope Spot designation. They submitted Cape Byron Marine Park for consideration for myriad reasons. “It’s just a magical place, the whole coastline, and the fact that you can swim off the beach and hang out with turtles, dolphins or whales,” says Alice. “You can go out to Nguthungulli and have the eagle rays or the leopard sharks just swirling around.”

I ask Alice why she finds this place especially hopeful. “It’s got to be the whales. For a while Byron was a literal bloodbath, with migrating whales slaughtered and butchered in our backyard. Now it’s the complete opposite of that, with thousands of whales safely travelling past and bringing so much joy. You can hear their song all winter long if you stick your head under the waves. From the headlands you can see calves doing floppy breaches as they play off our coast.

“The warm waters of the East Australian Current mingle with the cooler waters down here, creating a unique place with an amazing diversity of tropical and temperate species. That’s why you get summer visitors like the mantas and the leopard sharks, but then winter visitors, like the grey nurse sharks that come in.”

The Hope Spot designation is the newest thread in a long tapestry of care and custodianship. Cape Byron Marine Park was established in 2002, banning industrial fishing. Nearly 30 per cent of the park is Sanctuary Zone, the highest level of protection.

If we’re in need of solutions to safeguard the planet, then marine protected areas (MPAs) are one of our sharpest tools. Selectively setting and managing boundaries on human activity allows marine ecosystems to replenish and thrive. Proximity to highly managed areas allow for greater food security and can correlate with higher income and an increased sense of wellbeing in nearby towns and villages. But the level of protection makes all the difference: sanctuary, or ‘no take’ zones see the most robust results.

Of course, MPAs alone can’t combat fossil fuel emissions. Still, the ocean – as the UN puts it – is “the world’s greatest ally against climate change.” It “generates 50 per cent of the oxygen we need, absorbs 25 per cent of all carbon dioxide emissions and captures 90 per cent of the excess heat generated by these emissions. It is not just ‘the lungs of the planet’ but also its largest ‘carbon sink’ – a vital buffer against the impacts of climate change.”

Australia was amongst the first nations to adopt the political concept of “marine protected areas”. A central portion of what we now call Cape Byron Marine Park – the Julian Rocks Nguthungulli Nature Reserve – was first recognised in 1961. After ongoing pressure from concerned locals, the site was permanently protected as a sanctuary zone in 2006.

In addition to being recognised as an important part of the Hope Spot in 2023, the Julian Rocks Nature Reserve adopted dual naming. The story goes that Captain Cook named the 20-million year-old volcanic promontory after his nephew and niece (Juan and Julia) when he blew past in 1770. But the real origin of the European name is still unknown. The rocks’ designation as Julian Rocks Nguthungulli Nature Reserve, rightfully acknowledges Bundjalung history and the original name.

If you’re swimming, surfing, or just lounging on the sand in Byron Bay, and looking horizon-ward, then the immovable dark peaks of Nguthungulli are always in view. Nickolla Clark is a National Parks and Wildlife Service Field and Education Officer and carries the long-held lore of the area’s significance.

“There was a creator, the grandfather of the world, and he went out and he created the water, he rose the mountains, he planted the trees, and he went to lay and rest in the cave at Nguthungulli. And he’s laid and rested there since.” Nickolla facilitates community and cultural engagement through the local not for profit, Country as Teacher.

“Nguthungulli translates as grandfather. It’s a significant story that has been shared for thousands and thousands of years. Through song, through dance, through language. So that not only my mob, the Arakwal people, but all Bundjalung know this story. We call Nguthungulli grandfather because in its creation story, it created the land, the water and everything you see. It imprinted not only the physical features of our landscape, but our history, our connection, our culture and our lore to this landscape, as well. It’s a very sacred site.”

“Yvonne Stewart and the elders fought very hard to get the history and the recognition over that site [Nguthungulli] during our Native Title fight,” Nickolla recalls.

More than 7000 years ago, this coastline looked very different. Water levels were significantly lower, and Yvonne Stewart’s mob used tidal sand spits to access Nguthungulli. “That site was used for ceremonies and customary laws and practices. It’s a very significant site, not only because of its beauty, but because of the way that site was used. That history lives on in the stories and the songs that we sing connected to Nguthungulli,” Nickolla affirms. Native title was granted in 2019.

Nickolla’s Arakwal ancestors have lived here for at least 22,000 years. I try to frame that time span in my mind, but I can’t. I think about the Bienke family, whaling in the bay, when our house would have been knocked together from old local hardwood. That was just 100 years ago. Columbus, the conquering cowboy, on the seven seas. Ancient history, right? That was just over 500 years ago.

Esteemed oceanographer Sylvia Earle created the concept of Hope Spots to build upon the success of marine protected areas – to re-engage local communities in ocean protection. It has not been enough to hand over the wellbeing of living places – those of nourishment and hope – to uninvested bystanders. To impartial governmental bodies in Canberra or Washington DC.

So, what can we do to protect big systems like the ocean?

In our big, but small, globalised world where we’re all connected by the tap of a fingertip, Western cultures have let us down when it comes to knowing, much less caring for, our place.

Know your place. This is an elementary learning of Indigenous cultures pretty much everywhere. For millennia, many of these cultures maintained complex MPA-like systems of ecological management.

For Alice Forrest, part of the hope carried by a place like Cape Byron Marine Park is the living legacy of care and protection by Bundjalung people – and much more recently, by non Indigenous people, too. “We have people in our community who fought for that protection and put it into place,” she says. “It’s really special to have that connection, and then for the future generations to experience such a pristine little patch of ocean. It reminds us of what we can accomplish when we connect to places, put the effort in and protect it so it can thrive. We are powerful, and nature is resilient. That’s hopeful.”

To date, Mission Blue has established over 140 Hope Spots, covering more than 57 million square kilometres of ocean. “There is hope because there is evidence that protection works,” says Sylvia Earle, who has dedicated her life and livelihood as a scientist and ocean explorer to advocating for marine protection. “When caring replaces killing, species and systems rebound.”

In 2014, about 3 per cent of the ocean was under some form of protection. Today, around 8 percent is protected. The marine scientific community agrees that we need to secure 30 per cent protection by 2030 in order to maintain a planetary system that sustains life on Earth.

I’m paddling over a set, doing my best to wait my turn, rising and falling as swell lines find their breaking, humans in tow. Rising from the fluid seascape, Nguthungulli is stalwart. A timeless, rock-solid anchor. For me, a reminder of my place in this place; a minuscule part of a very long story. But still a part. I share this with Nickolla.

“I think a lot of people find it really hard to understand Aboriginal culture; that our culture is a living culture. It comes from the landscape and the way we connect with it. For me, being out on the water, much like you – if that’s swimming or just walking along the beach – is my way of connecting with Country. I know that my ancestors who lay at rest there are speaking to me. They’re telling me how I should look after Country. How I should walk on Country. How I should respect Country.

“Those are the ethics not only of the landscape, but also of my elders. I’m not surprised if all the water babies here in Byron Bay are connected to that energy, because it’s a sacred site; it has that healing energy. It has that story. It has that history.”

The less-than-secret wave where I’m sitting is marked by an ancient shell midden where thousands of women and children shucked their daily feed to the soundtrack of moving water.

There’s a rocky outcropping that used to have “Locals Only” spray painted across its face. Someone cutely came along and added the word “love” to the end (Locals Only Love). For years, it was sprayed over or cleaned off. Finally, a rectangle of red was added, with a rectangle of black above it, and a big yellow sun in the middle. It’s the perfect, literal reminder of the direction we should be looking to legitimately care for this country: to the people who succeeded in caring for it over thousands of years.

“My elders always used to share: if we look after Country, Country will look after us. And that’s a big, big ethic,” Nickolla affirms. “Not only for mobs here on the eastern coast, but across Australia. Have that understanding. Live with and be nourished, but don’t always take. Also, give. I’ve shaped my whole life around looking after Country so that it can look after me.”

Despite all its weird and violent ideas about localism, surfing can be a portal. It can put us in our place and put our place back in us. Don’t we leave dustings of sand and nose drippings of saltwater?

A house falls apart from disuse. A home requires care if it’s going to keep the storms out, and hold the family in. For those who came before us, home was never just the enclosure they slept in; home was the living systems all around, and the stories swirling, invisible, but known. This is this anchor that activism needs; what caring for Country means.

One sweaty summer day during renovation of the old blue house, Brian Bienke came walking up our dusty drive, with a photo and a warning in hand. He sat down for a cuppa tea and showed us where a big old bay window used to grace the front of his childhood home, now ours. He was happy to know that their family home would have another life.

“Be careful though,” he said. “There’s gunpowder in the walls.” My partner, Dave, who was then reskinning the walls, nearly spat out his tea.

Brian said he’d come across some buried ammo near the old jetty, left by US military crew around WWII. As far as his boy-self was concerned, this was like finding gold. But he got nervous about getting caught with the ammo, so he shucked the shells apart in his room, and emptied the gun powder into a hole in his bedroom wall. “Don’t smoke or light candles in there,” he suggested.

Such is the power of peeling back the stories and heeding to experiential knowledge of a place.