note books

It was one of those Portsea days when the north wind blew across the driest continent, across the vast Australian inland finally reaching the southern edge and continued south on its journey to the bottom of the Earth.  On such magical days the wind compressed the great southern ocean and the waves lay in endless lines like furrows in a blue ploughed field, row after row, rolling mounds of water as far as the eye could see. You could swim out and cross those small mountains to the place where the water dissolved from green to azure to darker and darker shades of blue until you reached a distinct purple line where the sea bottom plunged downwards forty fathoms. It was here the waves began mounding, throwing out their curving chests, expanding and growing taller, the wind whipping their creamy tops so they glistened and shone in the hard sunlight, proud and taller than houses. They held their perfect rolling form which had traveled so far, for a delicious moment before slowly curling and