Black Christmas
This is the story of a couple of kiwis who were caught up in a fire storm, on a beach, with only wet sarongs to fight with, and push bikes to escape on.
In 2001, Grant and I took up cycle touring to fulfill a childhood dream of mine to see France en velo (yes, that's right, Grant made my dreams come true - awwww). To get some experience before heading to Europe, we planned a summer holiday cycling down the South Coast of New South Wales. A few days before Christmas we wheeled our bikes, weighed down with camping gear, on to a train at Milsons Point station, near our Sydney apartment. We were headed for Waterfall, the gateway to the Royal National Park, the second oldest national park in the world after Yellowstone in the US.
We had cycled through this park's glorious forest earlier in the year, in the popular Sydney to the Gong (Wollongong) bike ride. In November it been a fun and noisy trek surrounded by hundreds of people. This time we were alone but for the cicadas, birds and the very occasional passing motorist. The hilly terrain proved hard work on heavy touring bikes but the canopy of eucalyptus and cedar provided respite from the heat that was building as the morning wore on. Calls from the bush, and the rustling of leaves punctuated the sound of our steady breathing, pedals cranking and tread grinding on the road. The evaporating morning dew enlivened the verdant and earthy smells of the undergrowth and soil, and the oily scent of the tar on the road. The fern and wattle made a pattern of rich and vibrant greens, and we could see peeps of the blue sky through the canopy. Each time we coasted downhill, we generated a gentle breeze to cool our limbs, hot from the uphill work. Each sensation was magnified by my feeling of excitement that we were headed off on a great adventure together. It is a very free and strangely powerful feeling to be riding out with everything you need on your bike. And to be doing it with Grant made it particularly special.
Out the other side of National Park - a view towards Wollongong.
Through the other side of the forest we stopped to take in the great expanse of ocean bordered by high cliffs and heathland, then free wheeled down to the breathtaking, cliff hugging coastal road that leads south. Our destination was a campground in Shellharbour, just south of Wollongong. There, a swim at a vast stretch of underpopulated beach was a relief after a long drag along flat roads in the penetrating heat.
The following day was tough. It was hotter than the day before and our route went up and down hill after hill as we followed the coast. The vistas were spectacular, but the going proved too much for two touring novices. At Kiama we caught a train most of the way to our destination - Shoalhaven. Again, we found ourselves on a romantic expanse of beach, but struggled to protect ourselves from the heat.
The stunning coastline from atop one of the many hills we climbed that day
The next day, Christmas Eve, was hotter still. We set off as early as we could to avoid the worst of the heat, and on the way had a change of plan. Our destination was a campground in Jervis Bay, not far from Nowra. But while the area was, as the crow flies, close to the township of Huskisson, it was separated by Currambene Creek. The way by road to "civilisation" and fresh food was a trip of dozens of kilometres. We contemplated the delights of a Christmas dinner of tinned food in the scorching heat, and decided to go to Huskisson instead. We called ahead to the Huskisson Bayside Motel, situated by the beach. This proved a fortunate decision.
On the Nowra bridge that straddles the Shoalhaven River
We had been told that Jervis (rhymes with nervous) Bay was beautiful, with the whitest sand in the world and we were not disappointed. A sheltered and friendly white sand beach, with warm, crystal blue water was our reward for three days of pedalling away beneath an unforgiving sun.
Huskisson
We shared the beach with European tourists who had also chosen to spend a Christmas away from home. Our motel room, functional and spare by any other standard, was like a palace to us that day. A palace with air-conditioning, a fridge, and a TV.
The view from Huskisson across the Currambene Creek to where we were going to camp before we started craving air-conditioning
We took a Dolphin cruise that afternoon, and marvelled at the beauty of the area from the sea.
As promised, we got to see dolphins.
But the first sign of trouble ahead came into view. Smoke billowed from an area roughly north of us. No one seemed particularly concerned, and we watched with growing fascination. The bush was on fire, but it was difficult to tell exactly how far away from us that smoke was.
That evening, after a pub meal, we settled into a satisfying slumber in a cool room, on a soft bed.
We awoke to clear blue skies and a blissfully quiet street. So pleased I was with our weather that day, that on waking I took a photo from our motel window. The photo made for a good comparison as the day wore on.
We called our families with merry Christmas wishes and settled into a day that promised nothing much other than real food and lazing about. Perfection. Sometime later in the morning, out of our motel window we noticed a plume of smoke rising in the distance.
This made us slightly nervous, but we continued to enjoy our day, taking a dip at the beach and watching some Christmas junk on TV. As the day wore on, the view from our window became more intense, and the smell of smoke crept into our room.
We sat down for a lunch of garlic prawns, but didn't enjoy it much knowing that the fire was creeping ever nearer.
After we ate, I was part way through watching an Olivia Newton John movie "A Christmas Romance" (it was Christmas Day, we were in Australia, it seemed right even though it was so wrong), when the power went out (perhaps a small mercy). So, we headed back down to the beach for a swim. Outside the air was becoming thick with smoke, and the view to sea was obscured. A hot wind had picked up and was howling seaward from the direction of the fire. From the road we looked across the creek to the campground we originally were to stay at - it was going up in flames. We lost our desire to swim, and went back to our motel room.
By now, we could hear the roar of the fire, and the wind felt like it came from a giant blow dryer. The sky had turned orange, the air was getting thicker with smoke, and panic began to set in.
Sky on fire
Suddenly came the screech of tyres and brakes. Out of the window we could see cars tearing one way up the street, and then moments later passing us at speed in the opposite direction. We went down to the street and learned that both roads out of Huskisson were blocked by fire.
Panic on the street
The only fire engine we were to see for a while
We went back down the beach to take a photo, and then hurried back to our room. We decided that if people were panicking, then perhaps we should be ready to evacuate.
We had no idea what we were going to do, or where we were going to go, but we had at least decided we didn't want to fry in our motel room. We put on some cycle clothes, packed up our gear, loaded up our bikes and left.
This is how you know this is not a fashion blog
Once outside, I felt a stinging sensation on my back and arm. Embers were falling from the sky, and were melting my nylon clothing as they landed on me. The decision to put on cycling was a bit stupid in retrospect, but then again we didn't have much else to wear.
We decided that the best place to be was on the beach, because, we reasoned, the sea cannot burn. If the fire came too close, we thought that we could swim out until the bank leading down to the sand had burnt out. That was the plan, at least until I pointed out that I cannot swim. Grant motioned towards a rocky outcrop that we might be able to seek refuge on. We happened to take a photo of it the previous day. In retrospect, if push came to shove, it would have been us and the rest of Huskisson trying to perch on the little outcrop - in which case push really would have come to shove.
The rocky outcrop
A different flaw in our plan became apparent very quickly. The air was getting heavier with smoke, and we both were finding it hard to breathe. As the wind blew hard at us from the direction of the flames, we knew the smoke was only going to get worse. And that wasn't good. I think it was around this point that I stopped planning and started panicking. It dawned on me that Grant and I were going to perish there on that beach.
It frustrates me that I cannot adequately remember what went through my mind once I believed I was going to die. I know that my life didn't flash before me. I know that it occurred to me that my life wasn't flashing before me. I also know that I tried to think about my family, but I found it too hard to think about them all at once. In fact, I wasn't even sure about how I should be thinking of them. I do recall that there was one thought that kept on invading my head, and that was of our wedding that would never happen. Grant and I were to be married the following November, but no-one knew as we planned to keep it to ourselves until closer to the date. We had never put much importance on being married, but in that moment I was devastated that it would never happen for us. That we would die there, on the beach, unwed. I was about to say that for those who know me well enough, it is odd for me to be so preoccupied. But now I wonder whether even I didn't know myself well enough, and that in the heat of the moment, a light was able to shine on to a small, yet undiscovered part of my psyche. I can also confirm that when you believe you are about to die, you are likely to want to poo your pants. I didn't poo my pants, but I had to fight the urge with gusto.
But enough of that. The fact that I am writing this 7 years on proves that we did not die that day. In fact, the belief that we would die only lasted for half an hour or so (that said, it was difficult to measure the passing of time). An Australian man on the beach scoffed at my concern. He was convinced that we would be fine. He'd been through it all before, and said that the volunteer fire service wouldn't let the flames get to us. I felt a bit sheepish at letting myself be so dramatic (I had hitherto been the sensible one in my family). However, what he or I weren't to know was that we were in fact at the centre one of the worst fires that NSW had seen, and that that day was to come to be known as "Black Christmas". The fires in Victoria over these past few weeks have also made it horribly clear what an unpredictable beast a bush fire is. I feel a bit less of an idiot now than I did in that moment.
I don't know whether it was this man's nonchalant attitude, or the fact that the bank was catching alight, but I snapped out of my morbid and panicked thoughts and got mobilised again. At some point Grant and I had ditched our cycle clothing, and dug deep into our bags for cotton clothing. We soaked the clothes in ashy sea water before putting them on and put wet bandannas around our faces to make it easier and healthier to breathe. We then set about, with others, trying to put out fires on the bank with what we had to hand. We fished a couple of sarongs out of our bags, wet them, and started beating at the flames. Just when we thought we were making progress, falling embers would reignite another patch. At the northern end of the beach we could see the bank was ablaze and people were struggling to contain it. Grant disappeared off in that direction to help. Wheelie bins were found, and strong men filled them with sea water to douse the flames. That fire eventually sizzled down. I learned that fire crews were busy fighting flames in the road behind the street that the motel was on. The fire was randomly picking off some houses, while leaving others untouched.
All of a sudden, the wind that had been bearing down on us stopped, and a fire crew came into view. I had not ever, and have not since, experienced relief like that.
Grant ambled down the beach looking like he had stuck his fingers in an electrical socket. It was good to be able to find some humour in an otherwise horrifying afternoon.
It is funny the little things you remember from moments like this - the good and the bad. The woman in the photo below was from somewhere in South America, and we were beating at the flames together. She was a very personable lady who we were to get in touch with once back in Sydney, but for some reason it never happened. I think we wanted to put it all behind us at that point. On the other hand I met another woman, who I handed a sarong to so she could help with dampening the fire on the bank. Instead, she quietly skulked off, sarong in hand, and I never saw her, or the sarong again.
A small but determined fire left burning on the bank, after things had calmed down
That night, Grant and I settled in for a very unsettled sleep in the motel room. I was afraid that the wind would pick up again, and that we would die of smoke inhalation in our sleep. If I was being a bit more rational, I would have argued to myself that there wasn't much bush left to catch alight, but I was tired and scared, and logic was a luxury.
Terrified but tired
The following day shopkeepers spilled out on to the street, trying to sell off what they could from their non-functioning chillers. The community mingled there, swapping tales of losses and near misses. Our motel had become a kind of refuge for locals who had lost homes, and campers who had to flee the bush. One European family had left everything at their campsite in situ, jumped in their car and driven as fast as they could out of the forest. They had lost everything, including passports, but were philosophical - at least they had escaped with their lives. The motel owner let all the fire refugees stay for free. We were forced to stay on longer than we had planned due to road closures and he also wouldn't take any money from us for that extra time.
When we were able to leave we exchanged some kind words with the proprietor and hit the road back to Nowra. The ride was sobering. On the way into Huskisson, we had enjoyed cycling through a beautiful forest that blanketed a gently undulating landscape, and the salty smell of the sea. On the way back, all we could smell was burn. The undergrowth was gone. Scorched trees punctuated a landscaped razed by the fire.
Telephone pole
Scorched street sign
Our plan had been to head to Robertson via the Kangaroo Valley, but uncertain of the fires, we settled upon a less bush clad route up to the Southern Highlands that involved hopping on a bus. For some reason we thought that once up in Robertson we would be well clear of the fires. We were only there an hour before we saw this:
We stayed with a friend and were constantly surrounded by billows of smoke. It was a tense time after what we had experienced, as we knew how quickly it could turn bad. The fires were never far away and eventually Robertson was blanketed in a haze. We slept poorly. After a couple of days we decided enough was enough, and cut our trip short. We wanted to get back to Sydney and as far away from bushland as we could. I remember a nervous bike ride into Bowral to catch a train on the morning that we left. The closer we got to Bowral, the hazier the air got. We didn't want to get caught out in a fire on push bikes again. We happily made it to the train, but to our dismay the smoke did not subside as we made our way into Sydney. We arrived to find the city shrouded and surrounded by a ring of fire, which had torn up Lane Cove National Park on the North Shore. This was not far from the city centre, and not far from where we lived in Kirribilli. We were never in danger, but we felt somewhat hounded at this point, and wished it all over. Smoke. Ash. It went on and on.
A couple of months later, Grant's parents came to visit. We took them to the Royal National Park, our first visit since the start of our Christmas holiday. The fires had ripped through the park about the time that flames were eating up the Jervis Bay area. The undergrowth was gone and the trees were charcoal pillars. But while it was a sad to see, here and there was a little green sprouting of hope. In the short time it had been since the fire, seedlings had taken hold, and small ferns were triumphantly peering out of the blackness.
Before I finish, I wanted to say something about the people who perished in the Victorian fires. I have heard many kiwis question why they didn't evacuate. What I learned on our trip is that a bush fire is something that the community fights. If you want to save your home, you need to be prepared to do it yourself. Australians are well accustomed to fighting these fires, and I completely understand why people stayed to fight. Firstly, where would they go to? For many of them, friends and family would have also been in vulnerable bush clad areas. Moreover, they could not have anticipated the ferocity and scale of the fire that engulfed them. They were not silly, and they were not foolishly brave. They were doing what they had always done. They were pitching in. It is just a horrible tragedy that this time it wasn't enough.
