It was one of those gorgeous sun-warm afternoons, with a constant but gentle breeze, that March day at the Bay of Fires, Tasmania. We wrapped our jackets around our waists and climbed over the rocks. We didn't talk much, even the child. We felt the roughness and solidity of rocks beneath our hands and feet and explored and felt and watched. The tide made a pattern through the chlorophyll greenness of the seaweed. The peaked hard hats of barnacles clung for dear life at odd angles on sun-exposed sections of ice-age rock. The pipe-smoked clouds above the tree line lingered for our amusement. We picked up sea-smoothed pebbles and unbroken shells and put them in our pockets. And reluctantly walked back to civilization.
