~!Trolled By HolaKo!~ Hacked By HolaKo Greetz : TiGER-M@TE – w4l3xzy3 – Mauritania Attacker – Mr.Domoz – Kuroi’SH – ShadowMan .. @nd all…
There’s a great deal of science and technique that goes into the design of speaking panels. Somewhere in the background behind Tony Jones, there…
A background story on the recent mine closure. A couple of weeks ago, Alcoa announced the closure of its coal-fired power plant and open-cut mine at…
The soundtrack to coastal icons and bohemian enclaves that one American couple discovered on a summer road trip from Sydney to the Woodford Folk…
In what is believed to be a world-first discovery, marine archaeologists attached to the US-based Worthington Institute of Marine Science say they have found…
By Lisa-ann Gershwin. University of Chicago Press Jellyfish are, rightly or wrongly, among the least-loved of ocean creatures. Beachgoers start with a presumptive antipathy…
On Sunday 1 March at 7.40pm the ABC will premiere Life on the Reef, a new documentary series on the world’s largest living structure…
The SV Rhona H is a working ketch, even to the untrained eye. Sails and ropes and emergency gear, communications tech and busy crew scatter over her decks.
Wandering down the slope of Montpelier St towards Salamanca, with the sounds of happy festival-goers drifting up the hill, our attention is diverted by a building site. People in hi-vis, a temporary fence and a digger.
These humans are volunteers with Museum Victoria, working on one of the continent’s most important paleontological sites. Known as Eric the Red West, this place was first explored in 2005 and has yielded fossils of mammals, plesiosaurs and fish from the Lower Cretaceous period, about 105-120 million years ago.
Great Ocean Quarterly and Patagonia have gathered four people who we think are just like us: sea-affected and loving it!
Author Favel Parrett, (Past the Shallows, When The Night Comes); photographer Jon Frank (Australians); writer and musician Gregory Day (The Patron Saint of Eels, Archipelago of Souls), and professional longboarder and Patagonia ambassador Belinda Baggs, in conversation with Great Ocean’s editor Jock Serong, and creative director Mick Sowry (Musica Surfica, The Reef).
This is a night for conversation, for laughs and for sharing ideas: a night for anyone who likes to think by sealight.
Purchase yout tickets here
The place from which these words are written, the southern edge of an enormous empty continent, is so diverse and contradictory and staggeringly huge…
Reviews: new marine science books from the CSIRO In the current context of debate over science funding, it’s relevant to take a look at the…
After the strong reader response to our feature in GOQ‘s current print edition on Maurice Hickey in the Antarctic, we thought we’d keep the snowbound theme running just a little longer.
James Walton is a poet who lives and works in the Strzelecki Mountains in South Gippsland. His work has appeared in Eureka Street, Australian Love Poems, The Wonder Book of Poetry, Sudden Presence, the Anthology of short-listed poems in the ACU National Literature Competition, Bluepepper, Australian Poetry, and The Age newspaper.
Now then. No more context’¦this lovely piece speaks for itself.
Mawson you were my hero
holding to an ember in
the stubbed out ends of flinty life;
flickering wraiths pilfering from smother drift
conscious of your will just glowing there.
Did you wake at the barking for the rest of it,
how they circled in love for you,
licks telling all their secrets
a whimpering prayer of cold necessity
in an adoring brush against leg.
Those dust ridden glacial beds
Flinders Ranges by foot, horse and camel,
no call of muzzle in hand beside the fire;
reminding in the unreflecting desert night
the crevasse trap of relentless white.
By injured call from the crystal drop –
Innis gone dogs straining in seeing howling:
sharing the slim feast of skin and bone
no laughter in the cannibal troupe
clowning among ourselves at your distance.
Returns that won’t come ashore.
George, Johnson and Mary too weak,
we carried them in morbid need.
Shot at evening turn of day to dream,
we ate their livers as their souls deflated.
The ‘pluckiest’ one you called me.
Harnessed in a voluntary will
we pulled us three by sastrugi finale,
Mertz gone when he bit his finger off
alone for thirty days to Denison Hut.
The rifle discarded for knife after Haldane,
Christmas soup of Winsome’s bones
‘cracked open with a shovel’.
Should have seen what was coming,
my pertinacious skull boiled whole
Karabatic winds so loud
noiseless in horizontal presence,
soles taped back to feet
no licking clean in six pairs of socks,
tongue taken with voice in the jagged end.
Inhale the mercy of my silence,
breathe the straw of anabiotic prose.
Ascend from near death fall now,
leg first wallow in ironic husky straps
heart sunk in the Aurora’s shimmer departure.
Aladdin’s cave unrecognisable stranger –
rescue team not knowing who was saved.
I would have known your scent,
could have raised the alarm in preconiscient
mind talk of smell as witness.
The last to cherish you,
in my eyes more than a saving grace.
Our journey played on a larger note now,
and inspirational coin series too –
of the heroic age and Erebus still burning.
Image is an unpublished photograph by Maurice Hickey from his recently discovered archive featured in GOQ Volume 1:2 : Tarbrush Hickey in the Frozen South
New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art has just announced it will make a massive archive of public domain art available on its website for free.
This treasure trove of the world’s most precious and wondrous imagery amounts to something like 400,000 individual items. What could you find if you took a wander around in such a huge repository? Well, it took Deep Sea News’s prolific blogger Kim Martini to come up with the answer: thousands of different ways to represent the ocean and the creatures within it. A crab might always be crab, but down through the rise and fall of civilisations, the countless human lifetimes that have gone before us, people have seen that crab in a myriad of different ways. Pottery, carvings, oils, photography, printmaking, textiles and more.
Ah, what boundless manna from the bow-tied gods of Manhattan!
And as Kim has said in her own posting, if you find something brilliant in there, share it with us!
Image: Life of Nichiren: A Vision of Prayer on the Waves. Utagawa Kuniyoshi (Japanese, 1797’1861) From the Metropolitan Museum of Art: Henry L. Phillips Collection, Bequest of Henry L. Phillips, 1939
The Top Ten Kids’ Books About the Sea
There’s nothing quite so contentious as a list.
So tonight, as the full moon settles over the bay and weary kids are plucked out of the water, wrapped in towels and ushered into bed, a topic arrives unbidden, like the lapping of the tide. Kids’ books. Kids’ books about the sea. The best ones seem to bridge the gap from the waking world to the world of children’s dreams. In the sea, anything is possible. The droning voice of the exhausted adult on the foot of the bed ushers in a realm of magical possibility’¦ if only the adult can reach the end without likewise crashing out.
1. Eric Carle, Mister Seahorse
Eric Carle was the genius who brought us The Very Hungry Caterpillar way back in 1969, in which hole-punched and cutaway pages came to resemble the evidence of the caterpillar’s eating spree. His cut-paper collages are instantly recognisable. A generation after the caterpillar became a butterfly, in Mister Seahorse he not only tackles the curious reproductive habits of the seahorse, but uses clear plastic interleaves between pages to represent the hidey-holes of all sorts of sea creatures ‘ the stickleback, the tilapia, the pipefish and more.
2. Lucy Cousins, Hooray for Fish!
This one’s aimed at tiny people ‘ it’s a fantasy and a rhyme, vividly illustrated with gloopy paintings of ridiculous fish: hairy fish, scary fish, fly fish, sky fish. The lettering is done in big, hand-drawn script. Of all the fish that the little fish encounters, ‘the one that I love the best’ of course, turns out to be Mum Fish. Can’t argue with that.
3. Jo Rothwell, My Great Ocean Road Adventure
Okay, disclosure time: we love this one because it covers the coast that’s GOQ’s home. Made as part of a series of ‘adventure’ books about various parts of Australia. In this story, Harry and his wombat Nelly follow a message in a bottle from Geelong to Port Fairy, encountering shipwrecks, surfers, fishermen and’¦dinosaurs ‘ squeezing them all into a little red car. And there’s a nice little appendix at the end with some facts about each of the towns along the road.
4. Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are
At home on any list, this is a colossus in children’s literature. Barely any child grows up without encountering Max in his wolf suit. But is it a book about the sea? We think so. Although his bedroom is overgrown by forest (which is probably reason enough in itself not to misbehave), the real rumpus doesn’t get going until Max goes to sea: ‘and an ocean tumbled by with a private boat for Max and he sailed off through night and day.’
5. Alison Lester, Magic Beach
Absolute beach frontage – God knows how many real estate fantasies this book engendered in the adults who’ve read it to their kids. Have a look at the vista from the master bedroom on the second-last page: this joint would sell itself! The drawings are indeed magical, and Alison Lester has somehow captured the private world of make-believe in which kids on summer holidays will always enshroud themselves.
6. Graeme Base, The Sign Of the Seahorse
A little bit like Eric Carle, it would seem wrong somehow not to have Graeme Base in such a list. Although Animalia remains his best-known work, the level of detail, the layers, the secret semiotics of a Base book are wonderful to behold. The verse is complex and lively, the drawing sumptuous and the classical undersea battle between good and evil make this book a standout for a wide range of ages.
7. Julia Donaldson, The Snail and the Whale
The tale ‘of a snail and great big grey blue humpback whale’ is a clear winner for the irresistible pull of its verse. The rhythm of this wee snail’s adventure story is incredibly addictive. And Alex Scheffler draws easily the best bad-guy sharks. There’s a nice moral to this story too: the humble snail dares to dream, despite the scoffing of his fellow molluscs. And he winds up having one gigantic adventure as a result.
8. Gene Zion, Harry By The Sea
This little classic was written back in 1965. The drawings, both in their subject matter and their palette of colours, depict a bygone era ‘ the hats, the bathers, even the sunglasses on the beachgoers are strikingly retro. Harry’s a plucky little mutt. Even when he’s under the seaweed, being pursued by dog-catchers armed with pointy sticks, you can’t help feeling he’s going to come up trumps. But hey, a three-year-old could tell you that.
9. Linda Ashman, To the Beach!
It’s as universal as beach holidays themselves – the panic-stricken process of packing and driving. While kids revel in the unbridled joy of heading to a faraway coast, the adults fume and bicker over forgotten items and time pressures. It’s all here ‘ the toddler bawling over the misplaced bucket (for crying out loud ‘ it’s a BUCKET, kid!), the traffic snarls, the dehydrated family pooch, and in a crowning final irony, the thunderstorm that sweeps away the sunshine. Summer schadenfreude on tap.
10. Oliver Jeffers, Lost and Found
Hmm, should’ve done this list from ten back to one. This might be a favourite. The poignant tale of a small boy who encounters a lost penguin and sails him home across the southern ocean’¦ only to find that the penguin wants to stay with him. Somewhere near the middle of the book there’s a double page spread of the tiny boat with its two occupants, adrift under the stars on a huge swell. Incredibly beautiful. Read this to a small person and there’s a fair chance you’ll both wind up in tears.
Welcome one and all to the Great Ocean Blog. Let’s get right down to it, shall we?
‘Great’ and ‘Ocean’ are grand, sweeping words that call to mind all sorts of magnificence. Feel the salt spray, stroke your whiskers. Rah! Hurrumph!
‘Blog’ on the other hand is short and stumpy, inelegant and incapable of carrying upon its slumped shoulders anything resembling a payload of meaning. No matter ‘ these three words are now bound to each other, and let no man or woman seek to part them.
Our blog is a response to a kind of necessity, which we’ll try to explain for you.
Firstly, we’ve given an undertaking in the pages of our beautiful printed magazine that Great Ocean is ‘a conversation, not a lecture.’ That being so, and the era of carrier pigeons being well behind us, we had to come up with a way for that conversation to take place. But there’s deeper levels to it as well: a magazine needs a community around it. And a community needs a home. (This is sounding dangerously like Michael Landon in Little House on the Prairie.)
Part of the journey over our first three issues has been the discovery of just who our readership are, and what they derive from reading GOQ. In some cases, our early theories proved to be correct: people have tended to flick quickly through the magazine, decided it’s for them, and then scuttled back to a warm place like a squirrel with a nut, to slowly devour the whole thing without interruption. The magazine’s deliberately made that way ‘ it’s hard to scan through it. It needs long contemplation and a good chair. Or a hammock.
Other early theories proved to be way off the mark ‘ we didn’t anticipate the range of ages, occupations, places and lifestyles we’d encounter, nor the endlessly varying ways in which all those people like to interact with the ocean. Some of it is straight down the Hemingway-Jack London-Jon Krakouer axis. But a lot of it is delicate and contemplative, scientific, aesthetic, deeply personal. The ways in which people draw inspiration from the ocean are as many and as mysterious as people themselves.
Which brings us to a thorny bit. This blog is to be a locus between a range of other short-form social media ‘ Facebook, Twitter and Instagram in particular. If you scan those media and you look at the immeasurable mass of special interest groups they cater to: knitters, drag racers, cat owners, crime writers, philosophers, hipsters, swingers’¦all of them have a label, an identifier, a handle. But what about our community? Who are we, in a word? Something unites us, something to do with the sea, but it’s remarkably hard to pin down. Are we marinophiles? Oceanists? Benthopelagists? Intertidants? Horizon-gazers, or maybe littoralists? Somebody, please, name us!