Now there is a recognized spirit of adventure – which I can identify with, but there is also an instinctive longing for survival. I am still not sure which best one matches our Camels Rock sleep-out experience. Well the story went a bit like this. We turned up quite excitedly at our rented house at Point Lookout one Saturday, having just disembarked from the open sided red bus with our usual holiday period supply of food and equipment. Yes you are booked in this weekend but starting tomorrow was the land lady’s, Mrs Vans Leben, response to our puzzlement about our holiday house having people on the inside looking out at us in that were home wish you were look. Well we are just going to have to sleep out under the stars tonight was Dad’s shoulder-shrug response. See, there were no camping grounds available or any other spare cottages in which to sleep that particular night at the Point. So we carried our holiday provisions down the steep sand hill and on to Frenchmans beach, which eventually swung around to a collection of rocks that look like a Camel crouching Camels Rock. The grown ups had decided that this particular place provided the best possible protection from the evening’s hostile elements. Joey, David’s Blue Mountain Lorikeet, could have flown to the rock in minutes, but he was instead carried by David for a full hour in his wire cage, much like the royalty of ancient times that were carried in their slave powered vehicles. Joey was the first to secure his lodgings for the night as David strung up his cage in the tree much to his squawking and screeching approval. Dad and David then built a fire on which mum managed to cook some bangers which when served, quickly quieted the rumbling of surrounding little tummies. I am sure that the devouring fullness related more to the mandatory two thick sliced of sponge-like bread and tomato sauce rather than the skinny beef sausages that were served as an accompaniment. Well abluting was as much a challenge here as it was at most toilet facilities at the Point in that era it’s just that the holes for this one night stay did not have to be dug nearly so deep, as to rate them bottomless. Family sleeping positions were then arranged in a sort of wagon wheel radiating from the centre hub of the fire place. The night was clear, the stars shone bright, the gentle puffs of the sea breeze rustled the overhanging leaves. Everything looked set for a peaceful night’s outdoor rest. Now I don’t know who added cement to the sand lying under my allocated sleeping space or which imp turned on the ice-fridge that must have been buried deep under my white sandy bed but it happened. Anyone who has spent a night on the beach sand will know what I am talking about. This special trick of nature woke me early enough to beat the rays of morning light by a good few hours and I joined David who was already poking and stoking the red embers and floating sparks of the previous night’s fire. The next night we finally spent in the luxurious surrounds of a timber floored, louver surrounded home with a matrice made of coconut husks for my bed – well whilst its comfort level reflected the same as the previous night – at least it wasn’t set on 0 degrees F.
