Diary. Day 1. Before dawn.

The border check was like Checkpoint Charlie, but friendlier, with sniffer dogs going through my car, temperature checks, forms and declarations by a string of five officials before the sun had come up.  But they forgot to clear out my boot, as promised before I left the mainland.  So I’m driving around with a massive number 18 sticker (my most superstitious number) and a pink cross tattooed on my windscreen.  I called Biosecurity, and I’m in limbo, waiting for them to call back.  I’m going to clear the eucalyptus leaves (not permissible on this island) before I catch the ferry to the next island.  

They call us “The Mainlanders”, but this little island is like my last mainland for a while.  I’m supposed to stock up on groceries, but after half a year of overflowing obligations and over a year of certain uncertainty, I’m going to trust local produce and spontaneity. 

I’m going to Storm Bay, which Dutch ships visited in 1642 with Abel Tasman; Tobias Furneaux came back in 1774 and renamed it after his ship, the Adventure; then James Cook in Endeavour searching for Terra Australis Incognito; then Bligh in Bounty and Providence.  

There were communities here before them, though.  Sometimes providence comes in strange guises.