I had a choice: A second snorkel over the reef with the possibility of seeing green turtles, or to stay behind on the catamaran and ‘relax’.
The morning snorkel had been pleasant, but the visibility was poor; the waters green-brown and murky after the recent heavy rains and flooding. The reef here, too, is not the healthiest, with coral bleaching and damage caused, probably, by too many visitors. Today we were lucky to be the only boat anchored off the beautiful Low Isles, some 15km out of Port Douglas in far north Queensland. I’d purposely chosen a sailing ship for various reasons: smaller group size, a more ecological way to travel and the fact we had two marine biologists on board to talk us through whatever we might encounter. It’s low season and the weather was not at all what we’d hoped for, so in the end there were only five of us on board, along with three crew. I calculated I would choose the glowering skies, cloudy water and bouncy crossing over perfect conditions shared with a hundred others. We were privileged to see two green turtles while we were swimming, along with plenty of fish, considerably more colourful than the corals.
Our stroll around the tiny, sand island was gorgeous; there are two well-appointed caretakers’ cottages hidden within the foliage and I decided that might just be my perfect lifestyle, the islands now being carefully preserved. The lighthouse is fully automated so all one would have to do is be present, watch the black-tipped reed sharks glide past and listen to the imperial pigeons. And paint.
I chose to stay on the boat and took out my travel journal. It was intended to be a written account of my extended eight-month travel around Asia and Australasia with sketches as embellishment. It has, of course, become more of a visual record with a few scribbled notes added on. The paper is not designed for watercolour (or the inks I’m using) and if I’d predicted the obvious eventuality that it would be used this way, I’d have chosen more carefully. Nonetheless, I’m trying to evoke the most important experiences I’m having and the essence of the places I’m passing through. I was quite taken with Low Isle, so a sketch was needed.
I regretted my decision quite quickly once another squall came over and the boat swayed and lurched under me. There was a time limitation, too, and in my haste my lines went haywire. But, as I’m always assuring others, a rogue line tells its own story, and once you’ve added colour, the eye doesn’t notice it. My biggest challenge was coping with the nausea as I looked down at the sketchpad. I should have Zen drawn it, I realised too late. I was truly suffering for my art and was relieved when we set sail again, and I could affix my gaze on the horizon; the determined ploughing of the bow through the choppy waves was infinitely more comfortable than the random roll at the shore.
The day served as a reminder of how much easier it is to sketch and paint when one is comfortable. And yet, how much more evocative are those drawings completed in discomfort, in a rush, on the move. It might not be the finest work I’ve ever done but whenever I look at that line ‘mistake’, I shall relive the sensation of seasickness along with the sacrifice I made by staying behind -the rest of the group saw another turtle and some giant clams with bright purple mouths. Yet all they have now is photographs.
