The ferry is old, all welded steel and flaking paint, and we sit on a creaking wooden bench as the engines rise and throb through the floor. The water surges around the hull, and we pulse backwards and into the harbour. A wind pulls against our clothes. We huddle against the chill, but we do not take refuge inside. We wait as the skyline of Sydney is pulled away and into view: the bridge, the opera house, and the towering high-rise are all where they should be, where the tour guides say.
Houses line the waterfront, looking out over million dollar views, but they give way suddenly to stretches of rough headlands, and we slide past the fractured greens and greys. The ferry pushes through the waves, and the spray is thrown up onto the deck. Children are playing on the rocks that claw through the blankets of trees, but none brave the winter water.
For a moment, we can see out of the harbour mouth and into the expanse of the ocean beyond. The view is framed by two towering cliffs, unadorned by buildings or monuments, and then it is gone, a fleeting glimpse into the blue that feeds Sydney’s beaches.
The engines begin to reverse as we reach the end of the line. The days of harbour fanfares are gone, and the crowds wait restlessly for the crew to open the gates. We wait for the way to clear and only then do we head down the ramp and onto the shifting pier. The other passengers head towards the shops and bars, but with the sun setting and the sky beginning to tear into strips of orange and red, we double back onto the ferry to enjoy the slow death of the afternoon.
nomadic snapshots 