Normal text size
Very large text size
We push off from the jetty before dawn, launching into the water in a dreamy half-light. Shadowy headlands, coastal cliffs and eucalypts shrouded in fog glide in and out of view as we cruise down the D’Entrecasteaux Channel, the waterway between Bruny Island and the mainland of south-east Tasmania. Lines of seagulls sweep alongside us. Gerard Castles is at the wheel of his small but gutsy fishing boat, a Bar Crusher.
“It’s like a pocket battleship,” he says of his recent purchase, which replaces a tinny. Visibility is poor, the rain soft but persistent. Castles jokes that he’s like an ancient mariner, navigating by instinct. Rain flicks into the cabin as he peers through an unzipped plastic window, beanie pulled low over his head. It’s a balmy winter’s morning, 12 degrees with light winds. We’re immersed in the stuff of Tasmanian tourism brochures, otherworldly and serene. “There’s Bligh Point,” Castles says, indicating a hazy light on a promontory to our left.