I was jogging around a few headlands, a few hundred miles, a few Peronis and a few days ago, when I discovered where old tractors go to die. There's this special headland that must remain unnamed where rusty old Massey Ferguson's are still valued. (And I thought, "this is my kind of place"). The surf on the biggest point was building and old surfers shuffled in their sheds looking for that Big Day Shooter from a few seasons ago. Even the eyes in the hills knew it would be on in a few days.
In the meantime, the boat ramp was busy with dozens of ancient farm tractors happily launching fishing vessels into the brine. Job done, the tractors would sit in bunches quietly rusting, talking story of fertile paddocks, bush flies the size of a child's fist and lightning (that stuff can kill a tractor!), waiting to once again be put to work towing boats, fisherfolk and their overnight catches back to land. Their eyes aimed north towards the horizon, while pelicans dallied in the offshores