Snapper Island is so named as it looks like a croc’s head in the water. Fortunately no crocs have made it there, and there are no venomous snakes, spiders, creepy crawlies, so camping was not a problem. It’s part of the national park, and apparently owned by aborigines, and the access is only permitted on the small strip of beach that we were on, so there was little to explore when we arrived. Aaron had emphasised that we shouldn’t bring anything that wasn’t waterproof, so we had no camera, binoculars or even a watch. Just a book and a spare set of clothes. It was a shame not to have the bins because there was some bird life, but I couldn’t make it out with the naked eye, other than a beach stone-curlew pair, which were guarding one end of the beach. We felt that in fact as he brought the boat we could have brought the bins in one of the bags, but it was too late by then.
We pottered up and down the beach, watching the waves come in and out, in and out, in and out, It was mesmeric, but with our low boredom thresholds we were a bit restless. Not being snorkelers we weren’t really tempted into the sea, but we did explore the rocks and found crabs scuttling around.
We eked out our reading, and of course by 6.30 it was dark, so it was pretty much bedtime after a moonlit tea.
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