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World Premiere of David Hannan’s new film Coral Sea Dreaming in HD at UF09

We are proud to have Dave Hannan personally introduce his new film Coral Sea Dreaming in HD as a World Premiere on Saturday 2nd of May at Byron Bay’s Lounge Cinema – all part of the Saturday night Underwater Party at the Buddha Bar next door.

Coral Sea Dreaming HD is the story of coral; the world’s greatest natural architect, and the ancient ancestor of humankind itself. Coral is the immortal sea God of our oceans, responsible for the building of massive limestone citadels which house the most exotic and specialized creatures on earth. 8 years in the making, Coral Sea Dreaming HD brings together the world-class cinematography of Emmy Award Winner, David Hannan, with an original musical score by Australian composer Tania Rose. Shot on State-of-the-Art High Definition technology, it chronicles over 2000 dives on the last three great coral reef ecosystems on earth: the Great Barrier Reef, Ningaloo Reef, and Papua New Guinea. Over 84 extraordinary minutes, Coral Sea Dreaming HD enters the very heart of life – and death – on a coral reef. Amongst the thousands of marine creatures represented, there are courting manta rays, oceanic sharks, turtles, cuttlefish, alien sea slugs, and massive fish schools reminiscent of a bygone age. But due to global warming, and ocean acidification, the limestone citadels built by corals are literally dissolving. And when the reefs die, everything dies with them. This means the extinction of millions of marine animals. There is much to be done to safe-guard these precious ecosystems for future generations. And very little time to do it.

David Hannan is renowned not only for his filmmaking, but more importantly the conservation that is activated by his films. This is the driving force behind his work. Coral Sea Dreaming is designed as a multi-platform product, which will place coral into modern consciousness as never before. It will be released on DVD and Blu-Ray Disc in Australia & New Zealand through Roadshow and niche distributors during 2009 and in the USA & world wide during 2010. Audiences can select to have a music-only experience, and enjoy the film as the ultimate relaxation video. Because of its superior format, it can also serve as animated ‘wallpaper’, turning a screen or even an entire wall into a virtual fish tank. For a more classic documentary experience, ‘switch on’ an emotive and informative narration track, or a ‘making-of’ interview with David Hannan. Other features such as pop-up factoids or creature identification tabs can be activated, turning the film into a powerful Field Guide and educational resource. Through the web, Coral Sea Dreaming also becomes as a high tech porthole into other related programming, with links to key marine conservation organizations worldwide. Coral Sea Dreaming is about coral. And the sea. And their dreaming. With her days now numbered, Coral Sea Dreaming is how coral – our once great and enduring ancestor – will forever want to be remembered.

2008 Winter Whales Ocean Classic – Byron Bay

This year is the 20th year for the Winter Whales Ocean Classic and the event will include the 2.2km Wategoes to Main Beach swim as well as ‘the dash for cash’ (500 m sprint) and the new ‘Mini Classic’ (800 m).

Date: First Sunday in May – 4 May 2008

Time: 10:00 am start

Location: Byron Bay Surf Club, Main Beach race starts from Wategoes

Contact: Chris Lowry aquadoctor@gmail.com

Migaloo the albino humpback whale in Byron Bay

Two of our guests were extremely lucky yesterday on their whale watching trip. Although it is very common to see loads of whales with their calves at this time of the year, spotting Migaloo the albino humpback whale right here in the bay is something very special. And this is their photo! Thanks Maria and Daniel for letting us put this up in our news blog.

Tim & Wandy Hochgrebe PLANULA Bed & Breakfast Retreat Lot 1 Melaleuca Drive PO Box 1753 Byron Bay NSW 2481 Tel: +61-2-66809134 Mob: 0403 357 969 e-mail: relax@planula.com.au WWW: http://www.planula.com.au

On Tallow Beach

Going down to my local beach always reminds me of being born. I’ve been cocooned, writing for ages on the “inside”, when suddenly I hear the roar of the breaking waters, the contractions begin and the big push to get out into the wider world is on. The birth canal is the path cut through the big entrance dune, which I enter through a shady tunnel of tuckeroo trees. I emerge on the “outside”, wide-eyed, wet, salty or licked alive by the wind, reborn into any one of myriad scenarios, for this beach, like all beaches, has its moods, its changing casts and hues.

These alter, subtly or dramatically, from hour to hour, from moment to moment. If I come down morning, noon and dusk on the same day, I can be gobsmacked by the awesome manifoldness of creation. I may find myself invigorated by an early splash in a choppy, overcast Pacific, burnished by midday’s merciless rays, then swaddled in sunset’s rubescence. When I can retain the raw receptivity of infancy, the innocent eye of childhood, these are votive scenes. They’re precious gifts and just the jolt to get me breathing deeply.

Cresting the dune one autumn morning, I crane my neck for a quick preview. A long clean streak of space, it’s unpeopled, for the Easter break is over and the tourists have departed, but it is far from a subdued natal setting. It is all airy animation and effulgence down here. The sky is a glistening jellyfish blue (some jellyfish actually manufacture their own light); the light is crystalline, flowing down onto the beach in a white confluence. The salty, sybaritic smell of freedom, like a heat-seeking emission, flies straight up my nostrils.

A lenient sou’easter has the clouds doing some stunning shapeshifting. Overhead, the cumulus have pearly white crowns and distended underbellies of pale taupe. Down at Broken Head, they’re draping whole ravines in dark nebula. Up towards the Cape they are pure ivory, backlit, trailing diffuse streamers of light. Banked in holy masses, they look like religious postcards drifting towards Queensland. This sky, like every sky, like a finger print, is unique. The clouds the clouds the clouds I say, a reflexive daily mantra. The cumulonimbus out to sea are storeys high, their slate foundations fat with rain and hung low enough to graze the horizon.

I look and look at that blurry hyacinth line which the dictionary calls “the range or limit of scope, interest, knowledge”. For a short while, I project my thoughts beyond it, directly -- give or take a few islands -- to Chile. The Chileans, I assume, revere their land and seascapes, too. There must be literature, art, to attest. Some other time I might ask at the library; right now I’m up to my limit on the borrowing quota.

In a library book I once happened upon an extract from Charles Lyell’s Principles of Geology (1830-3) which said : “We know that one earthquake may raise the coast of Chile for a hundred miles to an average height of about five feet. A repetition of two thousand shocks of equal violence might produce a mountain chain one hundred miles long and ten thousand feet high. Now should ... one of these conclusions happen in a century, it would be consistent with the order of events experienced by the Chileans from the earliest times.” That made the survival tactics of Mother Nature and the Chileans sound pretty impressive. But Chile is a momentary idyll. The true, magnetic compass of my interest is here, latitude 28:41, longtitude 153:37, and now, 11am-ish (I don’t wear a watch anymore).

Most natural landscapes, even those which superficially appear barren or bland, are, I believe, rich, multilayered and idiosyncratic. Initially, their surface lines form a pattern of immediately obvious attractions and deficiencies. But since most of them have survived colorful histories that are longer than we can comfortably comprehend, they may also harbour less apparent qualities -- such as antediluvian wisdom, ingrained contradictions, unalloyed compassion, buried vulnerabilities. They may hum with hidden powers and stream with serpentine stories, dark mysteries, magic, myths, poetry and parables. They may cradle deep energies from which may flow either or both of the twin tributaries of delight and tribulation.

These interred treasures cannot instantly be detected or grabbed at by the greedy or the casually curious. Rather, it seems, they may unfold themselves, their portents, promises and higher purposes when we are in the right frame of mind. My own (adult) receptivity to these disclosures developed very subtly, very gradually right here in my own locale. My experience is that place is an active force, capable of a cogent interaction with us, capable of carving a deeply meaningful intaglio in our hearts.

* * *

Straight ahead a couple is fishing. She has just caught something. A white flash flails desperately on the sand until she smothers it with a weighted covering. I am a fish-eater. I avert my eyes, and thank that creature for its life. The fishers have picked a good spot. Half a dozen gannets circle overhead and suddenly one dives so ferociously, so ... vertiginously, it must surely smash itself on the aquamarine tube below. But no. Although a diving gannet hits the water at 96 kilometres per hour, this plunge was, as usual, aerodynamically perfect. It is hard to tell if the bird has caught something because gannets seize fish in their serrated bills and often swallow them before surfacing. In any event, it rises effortlessly from the wash. This dazzling routine is one I’ve seen often, yet each time it affects me the same way. My feet take root like a mangrove in the wet shore and I bear a marvelling kind of witness to the sheer risk and dare of that life-supporting manoeuvre. Of course, the gannets, who need neither affectation nor applause to get them through their days, are not being grandiloquent. It’s all just breakfast, lunch and dinner to them. Or is it? Blind instinct, you might say. Or, watching all those perspicacious encores, you might perceive that the airborne artistry is so effortlessly and immaculately blended into their lives that the two are inseparable. Wo am I, grappling to express and assimilate my own creativity into my life, to deny them that brilliant merger?

A swift scan of the sky reveals no sign of a brahminy kite, but a wedge-tailed shearwater is dynamically soaring on the prevailing winds. Suddenly it parachutes with its wings spread to the max. Devilishly it dips, catches another updraft and soars statically (its tail feathers fanned out and flapping furiously), before gliding, then dropping, then beating the force of gravity at its own game one more time, and lifting higher and higher. Is it scouting for food or is it trying to get somewhere? Is it testing the wind direction or is it – here’s that curly one again – just having fun? On a scintillating, red-letter day like today, wouldn’t you?

The tide is way out, the sand still moist from the previous night’s rain and the ocean has sculpted afresh the long bleached shoreline to the south. I start towards Broken Head, paddling in the shallows. A young kelpie up ahead runs withershins around the clear, kidney-shaped lagoon that wasn’t there yesterday, chasing a white-faced heron, scattering the silver gulls who’ve gathered on its seaward bar. I wonder how old they are, for I’ve heard that gulls, aside from being masters of thermodynamics, can live for as long as thirty years. They lift off, soar in a streamlined circle for a few minutes, then descend like a deluge of white teardrops, their harsh, plaintive cries tempering a sanguine sky which, this morning is giving the turquoise waters a run for their money in the universal beauty stakes. Or seen in another light, the ethers and the ocean are not competitors at all, but a smooth double act, moving and gliding in a curvy dance of their own devising. However you view things, it’s quite a scene down here. My bare feet trip lightly along the shore. I step out in a chest-filling faith that a grand choreographer is at work.

* * *

I think about this place, my home, and how it has seduced me, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, into marrying the Muse; how it has enticed me to put down roots in Joseph Campbell country – following my bliss, trusting the garden path of organic creativity to lead me through some fresh green fields along the way. During this, my own organically home-grown “Course in Miracles” and “Creation Time,” I have gained some priceless experience and understanding.

If -- and there is “much virtue in If” -- for just a microsecond, I allow myself to be enlightened, I can feel in my bones that, finally, it does not matter where “time” takes me, or any of us. One day – who knows? – I may check out of this coastal coven. Somewhere, sometime, I’m bound to say my fond farewells to the flexings and fumings of whole restless planet. But on another plane, I remain convinced that a part of me has been abducted and bound (but not gagged) by the spirit of this place.

This text is an extract from Love Letters from Mother Nature: A Meditative Journey, available from Byron Books, Fletcher Street, Byron Bay or online from Bruce Sims Books. Email: brucesims@ozemail.com.au

 

To The Lake Once More

Near where I live is a ti-tree lake, known in local Aboriginal lore as the women's lake. It's believed that before white settlement the lake was frequented by the Indigenous women, the Arakwal clan of the Bundjalung nation. In particular, it's said that the pregnant women bathed in it because of the therapeutic properties of the ti-tree oil.

An unspoiled place, surrounded by bush, steeped in tranquility, and one white-winged morning in mid-winter I set off, via the beach, to spend some time there. En route I hoped to spot whales, for the Humpbacks were on their annual migratory path from the Antarctic to the tropical waters off the Queensland coast to breed. I was in luck. A mother and calf coasted just beyond the breakers, blowing spume and tail fluking. Seeing this play gladdened me, although it was neither my first nor my closest sighting of those lurching leviathans. My friends Trish and Wally Franklin, who have spent as much time in close contact with Humpbacks as any researchers on the planet, say that such glimpses satisfy "important human needs" which cannot be quantified in economic or political terms. The inner growth resulting from such encounters does not show up in the gross national product, or in the sterile bottom line of the economic rationalists.

In the 1950s Byron Bay was one of Australia's major whaling stations. By 1959 the Byron Bay Whaling Company was granted a quota of one hundred and fifty whales (who in those times averaged ten tons). But by 1960, the whalers had almost wiped out the humpbacks and the barbaric practice was finished. Attitudes, thankfully, have changed and these days the only whales being shot around here are those sighted through the telescopic camera lenses of the whale-watching tourists who cluster around the Cape during the migration season.

When the whales had swum out of sight, I dawdled a while near a colony of crested terns in case a couple of them decided to turn on one of their spectacular paired mating flights. But they were all occupied with what appeared to be their morning ablutions and grooming. A southerly buster ruffled their shaggy black caps so they resembled a bunch of preening teenagers with mohawk haircuts.

I turned inland, following a shallow amber thread of water back to its source. The lake's broad waters were placid and turbid as dark treacle, the perfect inscrutable consort for the faded sky which was dimpled by a white half-moon in the west. The tracks lacing the sandy shore cut through dense scrubby vegetation, a chaotic genius of canopy, understory and ground cover - wallum banksias, broadleafed paperbarks, ti-trees, swamp- and black she oaks proliferated, sheltering grass trees (fetching small fortunes in city nurseries these days), eggs and bacon bushes, lilies, irises, twining snake vines and the tiny ground-hugging and carnivorous sun dews plant which eats ants for breakfast.

Like so much of the Australian bush with its muted, grey-green and brown tones, this was not a place that socked you in the eye with a gaudy or grand beauty. But, alive with the croaky calls of wattle birds, the startling flashes of yellow on honey-eaters mid-flight, the thin notes of red-backed fairy wrens in the undergrowth, the murmurs of a zephyr through the tall, dry reeds, the bush radiated its own vibrant appeal.

That morning it was not a panorama I wanted (although the human eye naturally sees in panorama, in sweeps of roughly one hundred and forty degrees), but the intimacy of a sunny nook, so I retraced my steps to the seaward neck of the lake and, loose-limbed, all eyes, all ears, nestled against a grassy bank. A Welcome swallow flitted back and forth across the water, deftly skimming within inches of its surface. To my ears, its song was a long quiet, rambling twitter, but another bird would have heard the swallow's song as a much more complicated rendition. Such birdsongs often feature a detailed pattern of melody and rhythm, but they are broadcast so fast that humans can only identify them as a twittering, like a tape of our speech on fast forward. Although we hear sounds over a similar range to birds, they can hear ten times faster than us. Who then lives in the richer world, stereophonically speaking?

From the upper branches of a casuarina tree, a brahminy kite lifted off, performing a series of slow, fluid arabesques over the channel before cruising north on its solitary hunting rounds. On the opposite bank, the shallow water's slight ripples were mirrored as silver ribbons of wavy light on the pale, flaky trunks of paperbark trees. With a softened gaze, I watched those light waves. Time passed. I closed my eyes to help the entrenched, eagle-eyed observer in me, the one who always has to apprehend, to gradually let go. I allowed my shoulders to drop and my mind to be carried along as if by the water’s current. An image of my backyard heliconias came to me, bringing to light a dream from the previous evening. In that dream, the heliconias had "spoken" to me.

"See how we're always sending up new shoots? We let them all come up to the surface, to grow tall and stand together in a supportive clump. That's why we're beautiful." As psychological metaphors go, this certainly made sense to me.

I sat very still, breathing and listening, until the flickering light behind my eyelids faded out, until the place's serenity began to permeate me, until she and I grew seamless.

* * *

That evening, in my garden I sat on a rock and arranged around me a semi-circle of citronella candles. Under a fine spread of stars, I inhaled the candles' lemon scent and exhaled my thanks for all the beauty I'd encountered and absorbed in my time on this plane. Beauty, I realised, had informed and directed large tracts of my life, much as the stars have always done for mariners and for certain migratory breeds of birds.

Since childhood, my perception of beauty had been principally and inextricably linked to nature. Like a doppleganger sparking the embers of cherished memory, it lingered, even decades after the original physical formation had been obliterated by a dam, a freeway or a new housing development. In quest of beauty, I had variously moved house, borrowed money (to renovate), fallen in love, created a garden, travelled afield.

Yet as I pondered, a "modern", dissenting voice inside my head spoke up, playing devil's advocate, denigrating beauty and giving it a bad rap. "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder," it said, trotting out a tired and cynical cliché. I countered with Matthew Fox's claim that this facile and glib dismissal of beauty occurs because "harmony and cosmos are so little dealt with. Beauty alerts us to our cosmic connections." A dyed-in-the rainforest Romantic, I threw in some classic Keats, too: " ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’ -- that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’ " And a succinct swipe of Blake: "everything that lives in Holy."

The dissenting voice grew a little shrill in its demands for me to recant: You Romantics live in a dream world, eschewing science and the hard, dark facts of life, it said. So I parried with a few insights from Peter Marshall's Nature's Web: "Romanticism not only offers a modern way of experiencing reality, but forms the basis of a truly ecological sensibility." For Romantics see the universe as a living organism, an organic whole. Through their exuberant pursuit of individual expression, they, like most ecologists, esteem unity in diversity. They have a love of unspoiled natural environments, of wilderness and pristine places. They intuit the divine presence in all things and in their desire to interpret nature, are avid explorers of all levels of consciousness.

What a tragedy of our times that beauty needs to be sanctioned, I thought. Fox claims that Westerners lost beauty when we lost the creation-centred spiritual traditions -- in effect, when we lost the cosmos.

And so the dialectics went, until, weary of them, I dropped into meditation... Afterwards, the candles were burning low. It was late and I wanted to sleep, for at first light I was going to the Belongil estuary to bird-watch.

This text is an extract from Love Letters from Mother Nature: A Meditative Journey, available from Byron Books, Fletcher Street, Byron Bay or online from Bruce Sims Books. Email: brucesims@ozemail.com.au

Catching the Surf Bug

So I am new to this Blogging business, but not new to the internet. I spend much of my time on it surfing for info about well... surfing.It all started about 6 years ago when I stopped here by chance for "3 months".One look at the ocean in Byron and I was hooked. I remember it like it was yesterday... I had a 6'2 shortboard... I thought, how hard can it be... after landing head first in the sand, I realized maybe a little harder than it looked.Within days I spent my last 300 bucks on a bigger board... I had 50 bucks to my name, no Job and a Combi that overheated from the camp site to the beach. It was perfect, even if the surf wasn't good.. I couldnt go back for at least 3 hours until she cooled down. I was working at one special Hare Krishna restaurant, who luckily fed me too... mmm I've never eaten so much Subji (Vege Stew)...For three months I walked from town to wategoes everyday with my massive board... I got so Buff I even managed to score a girlfriend.. whom I married... But I will save that story for my next "Blog".For now I will share with you a little bit of what I saw, that made me stay.

Great Surfing at Byron Bay’s “The Pass”

How bout this? Nice clean waves at The Pass 6 & 7 July...

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