Safety Beach Sunset for Water H2O Thursday

 

Safety Beach is a serene seaside suburb just 56 km (35 miles) south of Melbourne's Central Business District. Known for its calm, sandy bay and family-friendly atmosphere, Safety Beach is a perfect spot for a relaxing day by the water.

A Beach for Everyone Safety Beach offers a safe swimming environment, making it ideal for families with young children. The beach is protected by a cove, ensuring calm waters and a gentle surf. There's also a small sandy dog beach, so you can bring your furry friend along for some fun in the sun.

Activities and Amenities The foreshore reserve features an attractive children's playground, BBQ areas with shading, and plenty of picnic spots. For those who enjoy boating, Martha Cove, a large inland harbour, provides excellent facilities and scenic views. The Safety Beach Sailing Club, established in 1967, hosts numerous state and national titles, showcasing the area's vibrant sailing community.

Scenic Surroundings Safety Beach is surrounded by natural beauty, with views of Mount Martha to the north and Arthurs Seat to the south. The coastal road of Marine Drive separates the housing and commercial areas from the beach, offering a scenic drive with stunning ocean views.

Historical Tidbits Interestingly, Safety Beach was once humorously referred to as "Shark Bay" due to shark sightings attracted by an old abattoir's waste. However, the area has since been cleaned up, and the name "Safety Beach" remains

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Mount Martha sunset Mornington Peninsula for Water H2O Thursday

 

Joel and I did not manage to walk far into Balcombe walking trail. He was so preoccupied with this scene. He set up his equipment like he was setting up a nuclear lab. It only took less than 1 minute to get this frame handheld.

Mount Martha is a quaint beach town wedged between Safety Beach and Mornington on the Mornington Peninsula. This is a popular walk with locals and it's easy to see why - this track follows the Bay Trail and encompasses four leash free beaches as well as providing beautiful bay views.

Hawker Beach, Birdrock Beach and Dava Beach are three different leash free beaches available along this walk and all boast golden sand and clear water. Your dog will love jumping through the waves or digging in the sand and owners will love the shelter of the surrounding cliffs – creating your own sanctuary. Make sure you are aware of the steep beach access along this walk 

The leash free beaches are expansive, with Dava Beach being a continuation of Birdrock Beach (the only way to enter Dava Beach is to first enter Birdrock Beach). Fossil Beach gives you something different altogether, being predominately made up of rocks it gets its name from the abundance of fossils that geologist A.R.C Selwyn discovered amongst the limestone cliffs there in 1854. These fossils displayed evidence of sea life from 10-15 million years ago.

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Kilcunda panorama for Sky Watch Friday

 

Kilcunda Beach offers a serene and breathtaking escape for nature enthusiasts and beach lovers alike. Known for its stunning vistas, rugged coastline, and diverse marine life, this idyllic destination is a must-visit for those seeking tranquility and natural beauty.

Kilcunda Beach, located approximately 115 kilometers southeast of Melbourne, boasts expansive sandy shores that invite visitors to relax and unwind. The gentle waves lapping against the shore create a soothing soundtrack, perfect for those looking to escape the hustle and bustle of city life. The beach's unique combination of rocky outcrops and sandy stretches provides a picturesque backdrop for photographers and artists.

One of the highlights of Kilcunda Beach is the Kilcunda Rail Trail, a scenic walking and cycling path that offers panoramic views of the coastline. The trail, which follows the route of an old railway line, provides an opportunity to explore the area's rich history while enjoying the natural beauty that surrounds it. The iconic Kilcunda Trestle Bridge, a historic landmark along the trail, is a popular spot for taking in the stunning vistas and capturing memorable photographs.

Kilcunda Beach is also renowned for its rich marine life, making it a popular destination for fishing and snorkeling. The rock pools along the shoreline are teeming with diverse marine species, offering a fascinating glimpse into the underwater world. For those who enjoy fishing, the beach's clear waters provide an excellent opportunity to catch a variety of fish, including salmon, snapper, and trevally.

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Brighton Beach, Melbourne for Skywatch Friday

 

It had been a long while since my last visit to Brighton Beach, long enough for memory to soften its edges and for familiarity to turn almost abstract. The drone footage, hovering calmly above the shoreline, arrived as a quiet reminder of why this place is so deeply lodged in Melbourne’s collective imagination. From above, the geometry of sea and sand resolves into something deliberate and ceremonial, as though the coast itself had been composed rather than eroded. I realised, watching the footage, that my drone had sat idle for years—updated rarely, flown infrequently—despite the fact that it was built precisely for moments like this. Perhaps it is time to return to it, and to the habit of looking again, from a little higher up.

Brighton Beach is not merely scenic; it is storied. Long before it became an emblem on postcards and calendars, the shoreline was part of the Country of the Boon Wurrung people, who understood the bay not as a boundary but as a living system—provider, pathway, and presence. European settlement in the mid-nineteenth century redefined the beach’s meaning, transforming it into a site of leisure and retreat for a growing city eager to escape its own density. By the 1860s and 1870s, Brighton had become a fashionable seaside destination, its calm bay waters offering a gentler alternative to the wilder surf beaches further south.

The bathing boxes, now so inseparable from Brighton’s identity, began as modest, practical structures—simple timber sheds designed to preserve modesty in an era when sea bathing was a regulated and ritualised act. Over time, these huts evolved into expressions of personality and privilege, painted, rebuilt, and embellished across generations. Today, their bright façades form a disciplined yet playful procession along the sand, a gallery of private ownership displayed in public space. From the air, they appear almost architectural in their precision, a neat punctuation between land and sea.

What the drone reveals—what the ground conceals—is scale and continuity. The gentle arc of Port Phillip Bay, the ordered repetition of the boxes, the city skyline hovering faintly in the distance: all of it speaks to Melbourne’s long negotiation with its coastline. Brighton Beach is not dramatic in the way of cliffs or headlands; its power lies in restraint. It offers calm, rhythm, and a sense of return. Generations have walked this sand, entered these waters, and looked back at the same horizon, each time believing it their own discovery.

To revisit Brighton Beach, even indirectly through a lens, is to be reminded that some places do not demand reinvention. They wait. And when we finally look again—whether with a drone lifted into the air or simply with renewed attention—they give back more than nostalgia. They offer continuity, and a quiet invitation to re-engage with the tools, the habits, and the seeing we once valued but set aside.

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Balnarring Beach, Mornington Peninsula for Skywatch Friday

 

In the first photograph, Joel is visible in the distance, intently focused on photographing seaweed along the shoreline. The air has grown markedly cooler, and the sky bears the pale, steely blue that signals the quiet approach of winter. It is in such moments that the necessity of reconnecting with the natural world becomes most apparent—calming, grounding, and essential to the soul.

Balnarring Beach, located on the Mornington Peninsula southeast of Melbourne, stretches along the calm waters of Western Port Bay. Its gentle crescent shape and serene outlook toward Phillip Island make it a place of both quiet retreat and natural charm. The area is known for its safe swimming waters, expansive foreshore reserves, and the peaceful rhythm of tidal life.

The name “Balnarring” is thought to originate from Indigenous words meaning “little” and “gumtree,” a poetic nod to the native landscape. European settlement began in earnest in the 1840s when pastoral stations were established, and by the latter half of the 19th century, Balnarring had grown to include a post office, a school, and a church. The arrival of the railway in the early 20th century further connected the township with surrounding areas, allowing more visitors to discover its coastal beauty.

Balnarring Beach—once also known as Tulum Beach—has long held a quiet reputation as a haven for holidaymakers and nature lovers. In more recent times, it was honoured as one of Australia's cleanest beaches, a testament to the community's stewardship and respect for the land.

Even as seasons shift and the cold edges in, Balnarring Beach remains a place of stillness and reflection—a coastal landscape where history, nature, and memory meet in tranquil harmony.

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The past fortnight has been exceedingly busy for me. Despite the considerable amount of work I have undertaken, the returns have felt rather meagre. Joel and I have been diligently studying investments in the Japanese stock market, prompted by Warren Buffett’s decision to reallocate his wealth into Japanese equities.

No16 Beach in Rye for Sunday Best

 

No. 16 Beach in Rye is known, of course, for its Dragon Head Rock — that craggy silhouette rising from the restless sea like an ancient sentinel carved by wind and tide. Yet it is not only the famous formation that holds the eye. What fascinated me more that day was the exposed ocean floor, revealed in shifting patches as the waves inhaled and exhaled. Ridges of kelp, stone, and sand emerged like the ribcage of the earth itself, each glistening plate a quiet record of centuries of tides, storms, and moonlit nights. Here, the sea writes its diary in saltwater ink.

Joel and I lingered on the shoreline, lingering in the breeze that smelled of brine and age. Our footsteps pressed into sand that had once been sacred to the Boon Wurrung people, the traditional custodians of this stretch of the Mornington Peninsula. For thousands of years they moved along these windswept dunes and coastal flats, gathering shellfish, watching the migration of birds, reading the tides with an intimacy that modern visitors can only imagine. Long before the beach became a photographer’s haven, it was a living classroom, a place of food, ceremony, and story.

Later came the early European settlers, carving tracks through the tea-tree, building fishing huts, and naming the headlands after their own imaginings. The coastline remained wild and ungovernable, storms reshaping its contours with a kind of untamed artistry. Dragon Head Rock itself became a marker for sailors and wanderers — a creature hewn from basalt, watching over the changing generations.

As Joel and I took in this layered landscape, the unexpected happened: a photography group we had once been part of — a group with which the past included frictions and small wounds — wandered into the same stretch of beach. The air, suddenly, felt taut. Once, we had met weekly under the casual banner of shared interests, but the structure frayed when the leader, who struggled with memory impairment, continued to collect a five-dollar annual membership fee as if time had not moved on. Misunderstandings grew. Intentions tangled. A minor sum became a symbol of something heavier — a discomfort none of us knew quite how to name.

Seeing them again here, the old tension rose like a shadow across the sand. Yet it was oddly softened by the scenery. The roar of the waves seemed to dwarf the awkwardness, reminding us that human discord is fleeting compared to ancient coastlines. Dragon Head Rock did not care for our quarrels. The exposed ocean floor continued its shimmering revelations, indifferent to the knots of memory and missteps that people carry.

In that moment, the past felt like another tide — rushing forward, pulling back, reshaping what we thought we understood. And the beach, wise and wide as ever, held all of it: the history of land and water, the footprints of those who came before, and the small human stories that drift through like foam on the surface of a much older sea.

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FE 20-70mm f4 G

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Brighton Beach, Melbourne for Water H2O Thursday

 

I have taken countless photographs along Brighton Beach, but lately the calm it is known for feels almost theoretical. On this day, the shoreline was thick with people—towels pressed edge to edge, voices layered over the surf, the beach transformed into a living, shifting mass. Brighton remains one of Melbourne’s most affluent seaside suburbs, but in summer it opens itself to the city, and privilege briefly shares space with everyone willing to endure the heat.

The heat was still lodged in my body. Only days earlier, Swan Hill had been brutal, the temperature pushing toward 50 degrees, the kind of heat that leaves no room for relief. I had been there moving between nursing homes, consulting in slow, airless afternoons where time seemed to stretch and the sun bore down without mercy. Brighton, despite the crowd, felt different—salt air cutting through the heaviness, the bay offering a promise of reprieve even as the sand burned underfoot.

Joel and I navigated through the packed beach, looking for that familiar Instagram vantage point—the frame where the bathing boxes anchor the foreground, the water opens behind them, and the city skyline appears faint and distant across the bay. Finding it required patience: waiting for bodies to shift, for umbrellas to fold, for a brief clearing in the constant motion. The scene was all layers—heritage and leisure in front, the working city hovering far beyond, held together by light and heat.

Brighton itself has shifted with time. Once dominated by old money, restrained architecture, and quiet routines, the suburb now reflects a broader demographic mix. Young families, professionals, and newer migrant communities have reshaped its streets and rhythms. Grand houses have been expanded or replaced, cafés and fitness studios line once-sleepy strips, and the beach—once a symbol of exclusivity—has become a public common in summer, crowded and democratic.

Standing there with the camera, surrounded by noise, movement, and bodies, the contrast was striking. The bathing boxes remained orderly and unchanged, the skyline still distant, but everything in between was alive and pressing. Brighton, for all its polish, now absorbs the city in waves—accepting the crowd, the heat, and the constant redefinition of who belongs along its shore.

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Childer's Cove for Sunday Best

 

Childers Cove is a small, crescent-shaped beach framed by rugged cliffs and dramatic rock formations. The towering limestone cliffs, reaching up to 70 meters (230 feet) above the turquoise waters, create a natural amphitheater showcasing the raw beauty of the coastline. The beach itself is low and flat, with a shallow bay floor, making it ideal for a leisurely stroll or beachcombing.

The cove holds a poignant history as the site where the wooden barque "Children" was wrecked after striking reefs close to shore in 1839. Despite its somber past, the cove exudes a unique charm, inviting visitors to explore its untouched serenity.

Childers Cove is not just a beach; it's an ecosystem teeming with life. Keep an eye out for inquisitive penguins waddling on the shore, listen to the melodic calls of seabirds soaring overhead, and spot playful dolphins dancing in the waves. The diverse flora, including coastal shrubs, wildflowers, and native grasses, adds to the vibrant backdrop of this scenic sanctuary.

From the golden hues of sunrise painting the cliffs to the dramatic silhouettes at sunset, Childers Cove is a photographer's dream. Capture the raw power of the ocean crashing against the rocks, the playful frolicking of dolphins, or the serene atmosphere of the secluded beach.

Childers Cove is accessible via a well-maintained gravel road located off the Great Ocean Road, near Nullawarre. Limited parking is available near the beach, and toilet facilities can be found at the nearby Murnanes Bay car park. Remember to be sun-safe and bring appropriate footwear for exploring the rocky terrain.

Escape the crowds, breathe in the fresh ocean air, and immerse yourself in the tranquility of this unspoiled paradise. Whether you're a history buff, nature enthusiast, or simply seeking a relaxing retreat, Childers Cove offers something for everyone

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No 16 Beach, Rye for Skywatch Friday

 

Upon the evening of my visit to Number Sixteen Beach at Rye, the heavens lay utterly cloudless, and the setting sun cast its mellow radiance across the waters. Though this stretch of coast is among the most frequented along the Mornington Peninsula, fortune granted me solitude; not a soul was present to disturb the tranquillity. The waves, breaking upon the sand with unhurried constancy, left a delicate froth in the foreground, a lacework of the sea that I found singularly pleasing.

Number Sixteen Beach, so named after the original trackway once marked by numbered posts guiding visitors through the dunes, has long held a reputation both for its rugged beauty and its perilous seas. Unlike the sheltered bay beaches of Rye, this ocean front faces the Bass Strait, and its powerful surf has made it a place admired by walkers and naturalists rather than a safe haven for swimmers. The limestone cliffs and rock platforms that frame the beach bear silent testimony to the restless shaping hand of wind and tide through countless ages. In former times, the local Bunurong people knew these coasts intimately, gathering shellfish from the rock shelves and reading in the land and waters the signs of season and story.

Thus, standing alone at sunset, with the waves whispering their endless song, one is not merely a solitary observer of beauty but also a quiet inheritor of a long continuum of human presence, reverence, and memory upon this shore.

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Wreck Beach Moonlight Head Beach for Sunday Best

 

Joel and I have journeyed to Wreck Beach on three occasions, each visit impressed upon us by the austere beauty and the peril of that lonely shore. Remote and forbidding, it is a place where the turbulent Southern Ocean pounds without respite, and where the rising tide swallows the sands entirely, climbing high against the sheer cliff faces and leaving no safe passage.

The path thither is no easy one. A descent of more than three hundred steps leads to the long strand, and from there the traveller must endure a walk of nearly five kilometres along soft and yielding sand, each step burdened by the pull of the sea winds. Yet at the end lies a solemn reward: the scattered relics of wrecks long past, anchors and iron fastenings now half-buried in stone and seaweed. These are the remnants of the Marie Gabrielle, driven aground in 1869, and of the Fiji, lost to these merciless waters in 1891. Once proud ships upon the trade routes, they met their fate here, on a coast that mariners dreaded and named a graveyard.

I have shared images of this place twice before, but in revisiting my photographs I felt compelled once again to dwell upon its memory. Wreck Beach is more than a strand of sand—it is a living monument to history, where the power of the sea and the fragility of man’s endeavour stand forever in stark and solemn contrast.

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Bore Beach San Remo at Gippsland for Water H2O Thursday

 

My apologies in advance — over the coming weeks, my posts will be devoted entirely to the seascapes of this beloved coast. I find quiet joy in the short drive and in the patient search for light, texture, and tide along its edge.

Bore Beach at San Remo carries a history woven deep into Victoria’s maritime past. Once part of a rugged fishing and trading route, it served as a working shoreline where boats were launched into the often restless waters of Bass Strait. In the late nineteenth century, the nearby township of San Remo grew around the bridgehead that linked the mainland to Phillip Island, becoming a small but vital port for granite, coal, and the island’s dairy produce. Local fishermen would gather at Bore Beach before dawn, their lanterns swaying like low stars, setting out to sea for snapper and salmon.

Today, the beach remains quieter — its industry replaced by contemplation. The wind carries only traces of those early voices, mingling with the cry of gulls and the rhythmic pull of the tide. To wander here is to feel both the endurance of the sea and the fragile beauty of human memory along its shore.

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Balnarring Beach Cape Schanck for Water H2O Thursday

 

We miscalculated the tide.
Balnarring Beach, which we had imagined brimful and reflective, met us instead in retreat, the sea drawn back into itself, exposing long bands of wet sand and the quiet ribs of the shore. The pylons we came to photograph at high tide stood more naked than expected, their purpose momentarily suspended between water and air.

In the distance is Joel. As always, he has rushed ahead, pulled forward by instinct or impatience, it is hard to say. Seen from afar, his figure becomes a measure rather than a subject, offering scale to the frame and reminding the eye how wide this coast really is. Against the vastness of the beach, a single human presence sharpens the sense of space and time.

Balnarring Beach has long been shaped by such rhythms of advance and withdrawal. For thousands of years, the Bunurong people knew this shoreline intimately, reading tides, winds, and seasons as living knowledge rather than variables to be checked. Later, European settlers arrived along Western Port’s fringes, drawn by fishing, grazing, and the promise of a gentler bay. The weathered pylons and scattered maritime remnants along this coast speak quietly of those eras: utilitarian structures built to serve trade, boats, and labour, now repurposed by photographers and walkers as anchors for memory.

Low tide reveals what is usually hidden. It flattens the drama but deepens the story, exposing textures, scars, and distances that high water conceals. Standing there, camera in hand, with Joel already ahead and the sea momentarily absent, the scene becomes less about the image we planned and more about the place asserting itself—patient, indifferent, and enduring, waiting for the tide to return.

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Second Valley Beach, South Australia for Sunday Best

 

Second Valley Beach is frequently promoted as an ideal family-friendly destination. Upon our arrival, Joel's immediate observation was its diminutive size, referring to it as a "small, tiny, puny beach!" Nevertheless, the area was teeming with visitors, seemingly more people than sand. The beach featured an abandoned jetty and a distinctive belt of unusual rock formations extending away from the shoreline. Fortunately, the tide was low, allowing us to safely traverse the narrow, stony trail leading to the rocky outcroppings.

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In the past few days, I have completed viewing the second season of "House of Dragons," watched two horror films while exercising on the elliptical machine, and watched the movie "Sleeping Dogs." As a result, I feel thoroughly entertained.

Magic Beach Cape Woolamai Phillip Island for Skywatch Friday

 

Magic Beach, revealed only at low tide along the sweeping shores of Cape Woolamai on Phillip Island, is a place where the natural and the personal converge in quiet wonder. When the ocean withdraws, the sea floor unveils a scatter of ancient rocks, their surfaces carved and smoothed over millennia by waves and wind. These formations are the remnants of a powerful volcanic past, for Cape Woolamai itself is born of basaltic flows and granite intrusions that date back millions of years, their rugged cliffs now standing sentinel over Bass Strait. Long before European arrival, this coastline formed part of the lands of the Bunurong people, who knew its rhythms of tide, bird, and season. Today, it remains both a sanctuary for migratory seabirds and a dramatic landscape that draws the eye and stirs the imagination.

It was here, during the pandemic year when Melbourne lay under lockdown, that I came alone with my newly acquired Sony A7RIV, predecessor of the A7RV, eager to explore its capabilities. Magic Beach seemed an apt stage for such an experiment. I found myself entranced by the interplay of light and shadow across tide pools and rocks, using HDR techniques I had never attempted with my earlier Panasonic or Canon cameras. The solitude of that moment—an island shore, a receding tide, the silence broken only by surf—transformed the practice of photography into something almost meditative. In that fleeting communion, I glimpsed both the deep history of Cape Woolamai and the personal magic of discovery, as if the land itself conspired with my lens to etch memory into image.

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No 16 Back Beach Mornington Peninsula, Melbourne

 

Love the spot behind Dragon Head No 16 Rye beach in Mornington Peninsula 

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FE 14mm f1.8 GM

Beach posts

The intense blue is particularly nice in Winter 

Not good for my wet feet

p.s. The spam filter on blogspot is a nightmare. I cannot even comment on other blogs anymore. I even struggle to get inside this blogspot. This reminds why I left Blogspot 5 years ago. PTSD!

Balnarring Beach Cape Schanck for Sunday Best

 

Here are some more frames from Balnarring Beach, looking toward Cape Schanck, taken as the day eased into its last light. Joel appears again in the frame, a familiar figure against the widening horizon as I caught the sunset.

The tide had drawn back, leaving the flats exposed and reflective, a broad sheet of muted silver and bronze that carried the sky downward into the earth. To the south, Cape Schanck held its quiet authority, the dark outline of the headland and its cliffs marking the edge where Bass Strait begins to assert itself. This stretch of coast has always been a place of meeting: calm bay and restless ocean, soft sand giving way to ancient basalt shaped by wind and surge over thousands of years.

As the sun lowered, the light thinned and cooled, spreading long shadows across the beach. Joel’s presence anchored the scene, a human scale set against the immensity of sea and sky, momentary and transient in a landscape that measures time differently. The salt air, the distant sound of water moving over rock, and the slow extinguishing of colour combined into that brief, suspended stillness that belongs only to sunset on this part of the Mornington Peninsula.

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Balnarring Beach Sunset for Skywatch Friday

 

Joel and I were at Balnarring Beach for the water—for that long exposure where the tide usually softens itself around the pylons. Instead, the bay had retreated to an extraordinary low, the lowest I have seen here, leaving the pylons fully exposed. They rose from the sand like a stripped framework of memory, their timber blackened and silvered by salt, their lower posts furred with barnacles and weed, each one carrying the slow record of tides, storms, and passing years. Without the water’s movement, their age was no longer hinted at but plainly stated.

The town itself felt profoundly asleep. Balnarring offered no spectacle, only a quiet so complete it seemed deliberate, as though sound had been thinned out by the same withdrawing tide. The beach widened into stillness, and the bay refused to perform, holding to a flat, patient calm.

Joel was beside me, though not within the frame. His earlier suggestion lingered—that one might one day retire to a place like this, where time loosens its grip and days are allowed to repeat without consequence. Standing there, with the pylons rooted and the water absent, the thought felt less like an idea and more like something the landscape itself had already decided.

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Lake Bunga, Gippsland

This was a fresh water lake near Lake Entrance, Victoria. In fact, this beach was much nicer than Nnety Miles Beach off Lake entrance beach walk way.

Olympus 12mm f2 rendered the rich colour and refreshing feeling of the day!

Joel and I had a good weekend.

Portsea Beach, Mornington Peninsula for Skywatch Friday

 

This steadfast rock has ever been my compass for long exposures, a sentinel against the shifting tides and the passing of seasons. Last weekend the heavens conspired with storm and rain, and so I turned from the unruly present to the stillness of my archives, where calmer skies and gentler seas remain preserved.

Portsea Beach itself is a place where time and tide weave their eternal dance. The cliffs and outcrops, born of sandstone and limestone laid down in forgotten oceans, stand weathered yet unyielding, their faces etched by centuries of wind and wave. Each stone bears the script of ages, each ripple of sand a fleeting verse upon the vast poem of the shore.

Here the sea gathers its strength, for the Southern Ocean presses against the narrow Heads, surging into Port Phillip Bay with a restless spirit. The waters may gleam like glass beneath a quiet dawn, yet within them lies the memory of tempests, of ships dashed and lives claimed. Beneath it all, the Bunurong people once walked these sands with reverence, their footsteps bound to the rhythm of tide and season, reading the coast as one might a sacred text.

To stand upon Portsea Beach is to linger at the threshold of worlds—the ancient and the present, the serene and the perilous. It is a place where nature holds dominion, and where the solitary rock, enduring amid the breakers, becomes not merely a subject for the lens but a symbol of patience, memory, and the silent grandeur of the sea.

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FE 20-70mm f4 G

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Second Valley Beach, South Australia for Sky Watch Friday

 

Second Valley Beach in South Australia is a hidden gem, known for its rugged cliffs, crystal-clear waters, and peaceful ambiance. I was lucky to visit the beach on a cloudless day, when the sky stretched endlessly above in a perfect, uninterrupted canvas of blue. Everything was sheer blue—the sky, the ocean, even the reflections dancing on the rocky shoreline. The calm, gentle waves lapped against the shore as if time had slowed down just for that moment. It was a serene experience, where nature's beauty felt both overwhelming and calming all at once.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

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