Patagonia

After school, the bus would drop us off at Blowhole Road, the closest street to the beach, and we would walk the rest, hoping the swell had stuck around while we sat at school. There was a little reef just off the blowhole, which was more or less a dry rock into a deep channel. The anticipation of seeing the waves crashing up against the cliffs was exhilarating — my standards were so low and swell was so infrequent, that any conditions were enough to excite me. Back then, living on Blowhole Road would have been the ultimate dream — you’d never miss a swell.

Until I became a teenager, Blackmans Bay was the only concept of a surf beach I really knew. Waves any bigger than two foot scared the shit out of me. I vividly remember swearing for the first time in front of my old man as I attempted to duck-dive a set wave, only to have it land on top of me.

I became friends with a few of the local bodyboarders, who introduced me to the concept of going to other spots to surf, and my addiction to chasing waves began. The more I ventured out with my friends, the more I felt that pull towards the ocean’s power. Fear didn’t exactly disappear, it just morphed into a kind of hunger. The very thing that once terrified me was now something I craved. I became more and more willing to throw myself into the unknown, chasing the thrill and seeing just how far I could push my limits. I found myself more interested in documenting the power of the ocean than riding it.

After I finished school, I lived in and out of my van for the better part of four years — surfing, exploring, and photographing. I travelled all around the island but spent a lot of my time down on the Tasman Peninsula. I became so attached to one spot that I left a couch there — a beautiful little perch overlooking the water, where I’d have a fire to cook on and watch the sunset. It became a place of refuge, a space where I could just be. That spot felt like home.

The Tasman Peninsula quickly became something of an obsession. It wasn’t just the waves — although the waves were a huge part of it. It was the wildness of the place, the way it felt like you were on the edge of the world. There’s a rawness there, a power in the cliffs and the ever-changing ocean, a kind of isolation that lets you tune out everything else. The Peninsula was unpredictable, sometimes harsh, and always stunning. It held a dark history, and I felt a real connection to documenting it. The Peninsula became a place that held all the elements I needed to feel alive.

I fell in love with the idea of owning a property down there, somewhere I could leave a couch without it getting rained on, where I could spend my days photographing and surfing, immersing myself in the beauty of the place. I started leaving notes in the letterboxes of shacks that were vacant most of the year, asking if the owners would consider selling. Only one person ever wrote back and unsurprisingly, they declined.

But just before COVID hit, a property came on the market. It needed a lot of work, and it was a bit beyond my price range, but it sat right on the water, with a view of a surf break through the gum trees. After a long settling process, I eventually moved into the little cottage at Eaglehawk Neck, funnily enough, on none other than a street named Blowhole Road. My childhood dream had finally come true, just not in the way I’d expected.

I’ve called turrakana/Tasman Peninsula home for several years now, and a lot of that time has been spent living by myself. It’s a slow-paced lifestyle, with a beautiful small community that feels like it’s steadily growing. Where I’m at in life at the moment, I move around a bit, which can make it hard to really dig your roots in, but the locals are some of the kindest and most genuine people I’ve ever met.

Shipstern Bluff has created a major draw for travelling surfers and ocean enthusiasts from across the globe, but there is a pretty core surf scene down here that exists and flourishes throughout the year when Shippies lays dormant. A surf scene that is based around respect and love of the ocean and people’s relationship with it, no ego or bullshit.

My place is about an hour’s drive from Hobart and 10 minutes to the closest shop, so I guess it’s somewhat isolated, but not really. The distance means it’s not uncommon to surf a shifting sandbank to yourself, especially throughout the winter and if you’re lucky in the summer you might score uncrowded sessions when the forecast changes quickly. There’s great waves down here for sure, but the conditions are super fickle and you’ve often got to spend a bit of time here to score.

Post-pandemic, we saw a pretty big increase in population for Tasmania, both in and out of the water. I guess with ever-changing technology, people are starting to realise that it’s possible to work remotely and there is more to life than living close to their office. I think this is a great thing; the more like-minded and respectful people in a community the better. From a surfing perspective, it's simple. Show respect, do your time and you’ll more than likely be rewarded.

I feel lucky to be able to call this part of the world home, and I pay my respect to the traditional and original owners of turrakana/Tasman Peninsula, the Pydarerme people. I recognise the privilege I have to work, learn, and live on this Country and acknowledge their connection to land, waters, and culture. Sovereignty was never ceded.