A blustery Easterly wind snatched at a flag flying at half-mast on a ghostly white pole in the predawn light. . .
A bet in a bar between two stockmen over who had the fastest horse founded a race meeting that’s been running 40 years …
The Leeuwin II strains her anchor chain. Wind whistles through shrouds that steady her three tall masts. An outgoing tide pulls her seaward. She longs to be unleashed.
The helicopter flies towards a white dot that is the Kimberley Quest swinging at anchor in Crocodile Creek. . .
The sun is setting tinting the desert with a rosy glow as I ride on towards Coober Pedy. I’ve been on my Honda ST1300 since dawn. I desperately need a cold shower, hot meal, and a soft bed.
