On the Breakwater

It was my rock. It had an indentation that perfectly matched my butt-cheeks. The rock was just below the top inside edge of the St.Kilda breakwater at its first bend. I'd sit there looking back towards the city skyscrapers, protected from the wind that usually whipped across the great plane of Port Phillip Bay.

On the opposite side of the rocky wall, the bay is ever changing: sometimes a smooth dazzling iridescent blue, sometimes dark grey-green, sometimes milky jade. The colour of the bay reflects the colour of my own changeable blue-green eyes. The bay is my sister.

A tumbledown extension of St.Kilda Pier, the breakwater was constructed to protect yachts for the 1956 Olympics. It was not designed for public access. During the day gulls mew for scraps from fishermen and cormorants circle the air spotting sardine and other small fish—streamlined bodies cut the surface hardly causing a ripple. The water sparkles and the sounds of urbanity are distant and muffled. At night the lights of the city shimmer across the steady ripples and the clinking of anchor chains is a discordant soundtrack

If I am lucky, I might see a penguin. More often, I watch the joyous aquatic dances of the water rats, so unlike rats when away from the land. Sometimes I tell people of the penguins. They scoff in disbelief—tell me I am imagining things. Everyone knows the water off St.Kilda beach is far too polluted for such creatures to survive. I shrug at their scepticism. I know what I have seen.

The breakwater is my secret sanctuary. The path is rough and potholed. Many rocks along the wall unsteady. I can sit for hours without being disturbed . . . being bothered by another soul. During the day there might be a fisherman on the other side. At night a few locals might amble in silence to the locked gate then return along the pier. Mostly it is my place—my rock—a place where I can breathe and clear my mind, where I can let my mind run free and many strange and wonderful ideas come to me.

Perhaps it is my fault. I tell friends, even take them down there. The natural rugged shamble of the breakwater holds a certain charm. Everything I love about St.Kilda is epitomised by the breakwater; its tumble of rocks, the rough path that runs along it. My bliss cannot last. Going for a walk along the breakwater becomes a late night ritual for more and more visitors.

For those who are not prepared for its rugged nature, it is an accident waiting to happen. The rocks are not meant to be scrambled over. One evening a young woman does so without the necessary caution—a rock gives way beneath her and complaints are made to council.

The walls of the breakwater must be made safe. The rocks moved and stacked so there is no danger of one falling and causing injury. This includes my rock! My rock whose indentation perfectly matches the curve of my backside. A rock on which I have sat for years, gathering strength to face a life that is not always easy. How can I defend this poor stone? Explain its significance? No one would understand.

Things will be better—the council press release claims—the reconstruction is necessary for public safety. The path along the breakwater will be graded and resurfaced. They will build stairs that will lead down to a board walk that will serve the small artificial beach created by the breakwater. No longer will visitors scramble down dangerous rocks.

It is also time to acknowledge the wildlife: the little penguins, the rakali (to give the native water rats a less prejudicial name). The breakwater is an official wildlife sanctuary. Signs are made to educate visitors: dogs must be on leash, disturbing the native wildlife is a criminal offence. Earthcare volunteers monitor and study the penguins and rakali.

No more can I sit on the breakwater undisturbed. Kirby's Kiosk is now a popular cafe. Patrons of the cafe wonder the length of the breakwater. Late at night, revellers from St.Kilda's many bars and hotels clear their heads of the smoke and alcohol by a walk along the pier and breakwater before heading home.

Lovers walk hand in hand and kiss with gentle reverence. The breakwater is a place to take someone you want to fall in love with you. A bay breeze brings a chill to all but the hottest of evenings. A protective arm is required to warm the object of desire. No longer is the path impossible to negotiate in high heels and the natural and artificial beauty is an intoxicating elixir.

For most, the improvements are undeniable, perhaps long overdue. Some worry improved access will be detrimental to the penguin colony. The penguins don't seem to mind—their nests extend to the whole length of the breakwater. On a midsummer night it is possible to sit less than a metre from a penguin couple and their chicks. The air is thick with ammonia from droppings and punctuated with strange guttural calls—a cross between a donkey and a gull.

On a night in mid-September 2003, Kirby's Kiosk is set alight by a disturbed man trying to calm the voices in his head. St.Kilda Pier is naked without the building and longs for its reconstruction.

I sit on the boardwalk of an evening and gaze across the water to the city that rises up five kilometres away: the inverted exclamation mark of the Rialto Tower, the demonic clown face of the BHP building, the flashing of the Arts Centre Spire. As before, the distant light is reflected in the rippling water as the yachts creak and chinkle, tugging against their moorings. Tourists squeal and gasp at sighting penguins. This sanctuary is no longer mine. I am nostalgic for solitude and a rock with an indentation that perfectly matches my butt-cheeks.