Mum worked at a hotel in Bega and for a period mum and I lived in town. I had already commenced school at Bega Primary then mum took up with the son of a dairy farmer and we found ourselves on a property a few miles north of Bega. I gained a step-brother and we had some interesting experiences like the day we were asked to go and fetch mushrooms in the north paddock.

We set off with "Grannie’s" basket, a slingshot each and pride in our step. The plovers were "Stukas" and protection of their young was by brute force, equipped with spurs on their elbows. As one of us picked musshies, the other shot a missile in the direction of the diving plover. Now it’s my turn with the anti-aircraft weapon and I let go a rock to protect my mate. Blow! Missed. No! The stone hits me mate and he drops, well, like a rock. In between helping him and fighting off dive bombers, we did have mushrooms for dinner.

Once, he climbed out on a tree limb over the creek below the farm. You see we were looking for wood duck nests and eggs. My mate clambered along an overhanging branch and slipped into the creek. Splash! Help! He was flailing and displaying obvious panic. I leapt into the water to assist my friend and, and, "Hey, you goose, stand up, the water is only waist deep!"

We grew green frogs from slimy bunches of eggs collected from the creek. We transposed the egg sacks to a small, water-filled corrugated tank with suitable furniture, like rocks and water foliage. As they became tadpoles and grew into frogs we would record their progress.

Sometimes, on a Sunday, my "grandfather" would take us fishing off the Tathra Wharf. Oh yes, the trade-off – 5.30am start, help with milking the Jerseys, in the old Ford and off. We would mostly catch trevally and we let the sharks go. Boy, were there some monsters. They would cruise by the wharf quite regularly on their patrol in to the beach. The surf club guys must have blown the pea out of their whistles and rang the shark bell unceasingly during the surfing season. On our return to the farm we would leave a parcel of fish with friends in town, sometimes on their doorstep; the cats must have fed well.

Tathra is built on a volcanic bluff protruding into the upper Tasman. The southern storms can be daunting with huge swells crashing on the jutting promontory of volcanic rocks just down from the pub on the way to the wharf. The story goes that a young man on his motor bike left the watering hole and proceeded in the direction of the wharf. Now the road at one point is 20 / 30 metres above sea level. This is the area where the young man tragically lost his life. A huge swell generated by a storm that was raging washed him and his bike into the unforgiving ocean. Sadly, only his bike was recovered.

At the mouth of the Bega River on the northern end of the beautiful beach is a bridge, (one of two built, the original fell over during a huge flood). It can be used to cross to another world of, then, pristine coastline with places like Moon Bay leading up the coast to Bermagui and if you go there don't tell anybody. When we were young a punt or ferry was the only means of getting from one side to the other. It was skippered by a bloke who lived on the northern side, a place where mum, my step-dad and I would stay on occasion.