I leave the beach and walk directly inland, along the street where my childhood home was once located. Our little, seaside bungalow was demolished years ago, to make way for an apartment building. Not far from the sea, I come to Narrabeen Lake. I walk along the lakeside path; the big, old, lichen-covered she-oak trees shading my progress. As a child, they reminded me of the apple-throwing trees in The Wizard of Oz. They still do.
I take a seat on a park bench, under the shade of the she-oaks, and gaze out over the tranquil waters of the lake. Ducks paddle close to shore. Memories come flooding back to me. This is only a short walk from my childhood
home and I had many happy times playing here when young.
I leave the path and walk down to the lake shore. Ducks outnumber people at this early hour. As they glide past, they quack gently to each other, as if in hushed, conspiratorial conversation. The barely perceptible, gently murmuring ebb and flow of the wavelets, lap languorously at the shore. The air is moderately warm, carrying with it the distinctly subtle, fecund fragrance of lake water, mixed with the ever-present perfume of the eucalyptus trees.
As I walk back from the water’s edge, I appear to have attracted a cute, waddlesome entourage. I take a seat on a nearby park bench, open my knapsack, and share a banana sandwich with my new-found, feathered friends.
The path leads me closer to the reed-beds at the lake’s edge, where the boughs of the she-oaks hang low. It was near here that an old boatshed once stood. We children would hire canoes and paddle off for a day of high adventure; our parents stressing that we must keep close to the shoreline. My maternal grandparents lived next-door to us. My father and grandfather would sometimes hire a row-boat from the boatshed and enjoy a day of fishing together.
