Among the abundant wildlife are wombats and wallabies.Credit:David Webb/Tourism Tasmania
You've probably heard the story where Jesus heals a man's tortured mind by casting his demons into a herd of pigs,which jump off a cliff and die.
As a child I thought:"Why pigs?"My family was raising pigs at the time. It was clear those cute piglets had enough horror ahead of them,so I never cast my worries their way.
However,years later,I try it on a wombat. This is on the advice of a friend who makes a poor living as a counsellor:she uses the Jesus strategy. When I tell her I'm going on a brooding end-of-marriage holiday,and in fact I'm returning to Flinders Island where I'd honeymooned 11 years ago,she says I'm setting myself up for a crazy haunting and it's important I have a few"tools"to keep my chin up.
"Take everything that's hurting you and mentally shoot it into something else,"she says.
And so it is that one recent morning,while driving slowly across Flinders Island for a cup of real but pale coffee and complimentary Freckles (those dollar-sized circles of chocolate measled with hundreds and thousands),I realise I'm talking aloud to my ex-wife,reliving a happy conversation we'd had while doing this drive years before with the windows down,through the moody countryside,with the bouldered range of mountains to the left and straight ahead,from the crest of a rise in the road,the blustery ocean and outlying lonely islands all misty with the breath of Bass Strait.
At that moment I see a wombat rooting around at the side of the road. I pull over and attempt to cast out this vexed feeling of nostalgia and futility. The wombat raises its boxy head and looks at the car. From a certain angle they have such pretty faces,as is often the case with very fat people. I open my door,feeling it important to say something now that I've bombarded the little fellow with my nuttiness.
I don't know if you've ever seen a wombat take off."Like a runaway footstool,"is how my ex-wife described it,which is what comes to mind when this particular wombat blurs across the road in front of the car and vanishes into some rocks. At this moment I miss that little wombat more than I miss the missus. I'm now standing at the side of the car,waiting for the wombat to pop its head out but it doesn't. Instead there's a whooshing sound,then a soft creaking and a dusty,oily smell that seems to fall and brush my face,vaguely erotic. I immediately forget all my troubles at the sight of a white-breasted sea eagle landing on a fence post,just across the road. This is the therapy I've come for.
I've seen swamp harriers,little falcons,pere- grine falcons,grey goshawks and wedge-tailed eagles on Flinders Island but never a white-breasted sea eagle. It's a magnificent bird,weighing up to 4.5 kilograms and with a wingspan of nearly two metres - not far behind the albatross. And where the wings of the albatross are long and thin,seeming to fold out like a old-fashioned timber builder's rule,built for gliding,the wings of the sea eagle are wide,almost canopy-like and heavily slotted,splayed at the tips such that each blue-grey feather acts like a winglet:built for power and speed but here it's perching quietly,looking at me.