BY VAUGHAN O'CONNOR
Growing up in the Northwest Coast of Tasmania was a gift.
Never the victim always the victor to the wild weather systems of Bass Strait creating a wind-born swell system so fierce it could topple the loads off cargo ships.
If boats weren’t broken or seriously delayed, nature would produce perfect waves.
With the timing of hours not days - if you knew where to look, depending on the moon and tide the judgement was made that boring work could wait while we chased the waves.
We had always heard of this mythical place “King Island” where crayfish and abalone were abundant, and waves existed more than mythical in most surfer’s judgement.
And the waves in this cold-water surfers paradise were mostly large, always beautiful but always fast and without the local knowledge to follow the pattern they would too quickly come and then pass into the depths of fathoms.
…….and the crayfish - it’s a long soak patience game that without a boat could drain your brain and hurt your heart.
So - some locals would have you know there’s nothing good to show about this place called King Island.
It’s a land full of secrets with the keys to the vault perpetually broken.
The purest air and water in the world and now there’s never a finer drink to be found.
But don’t turn up expecting a red-carpet ride.
and don’t take their perfect waves or they’ll call for your hide.
But you can call for one more drink at your bar...
Make it a good one made from King Island waters swept up from the winds of Antarctica’s sacred heat in your glass.
