Swirling seawater blurs the textures and shapes of sea life in this hidden tidal pool.
It seems fitting that my camera phone couldn’t capture the fine detail of these velvet pillows and lacy underwater trees, because the pool was so pristine I felt I had no right to be there.
It was as though the water and rocks conspired to prevent me taking a visual record of this magic place back to the world of humans, who might come and despoil it.
Humans who would trample the delicate seaweed, butcher the sea creatures for bait, leave beer bottles on the sand and an oily smear of sunscreen on the clear, deep water.
I wasn’t sure if immersing myself in the pool was sacrilege or sacrament. And I was surprised to find myself thinking about the place in such religious language, non-believer that I am. I swam slowly, with great care, trying not to disturb the stillness, but still I felt the water was clouded by my presence.
We’d found the place by accident, following what might have been a wallaby trail, ducking under branches that had been placed to obscure the path, sliding down a sandy hill and clambering over boulders.
When we left, we too dragged branches across the track to blur the entrance to this wonderland. I don’t want others to find it and I won’t return there often. I want it to stay out of sight and out of reach, so it retains its purity a little longer.