10 CONFESSIONS OF A BEACHCOMBER 



illumines our hills and isles with glowing yellow until it 

 drops in fiery splendour suddenly out of sight leaving a 

 band of gleaming red above the purple western range, and 

 a rippling red path across to Australia, the whole realm of 

 nature seems ours to command. 



Official Landing 



Dunk Island was not selected haphazard as an abiding 

 place. By camping-out expeditions and the cautious 

 gleaning of facts from those who had the repute of knowing 

 the country, useful information had been acquired unob- 

 trusively. We were determined to have the best obtainable 

 isle. More than one locality was favourably considered ere 

 good fortune decided to send us hither to spy out the land. 

 A camp-out on the shore of then unnamed Brammo Bay — 

 a holiday-making party — and the result of the first day's 

 exploration decided a revolutionary change in the lives of 

 two seriously-minded persons. A year after, a lease of the 

 best portion of the island having been obtained in the 

 meanwhile, we came for good. 



Wholly uninhabited, entirely free from traces of the 

 mauling paws of humanity, lovely in its mantle of varied 

 foliage, what better sphere for the exercise of benign auto- 

 cracy could be desired? Here was virgin country, 20 

 miles from the nearest port — sad and neglected Cardwell 

 cut off from the mainland by more than 2 miles of 

 estranging ocean, and yet lying in the track of small 

 coastal steamers — ^here all our pet theories might serenely 

 develop. 



But it was an inauspicious landing. With September 

 begin the north-east winds, and we had an average experi- 

 ence that afternoon. Was it not a farce — a great deal 

 more than a farce : a saucy, flippant imposition on the 

 tender mercies of Providence — for an individual who could 

 not endure a few hours of tossing on the bosom of the 

 ocean without becoming deadly sick, to imagine that he 



