Excerpt : from the book's Foreward
I have followed an unconventional path on my journey through life. Only to find myself back in the same place where, in one sense, it really all began: sitting in front of a blank sheet of paper, readying myself to draw. Intent on reclaiming my ‘true north’.
I see before me, through the prism of time, a young girl obsessed with nature. Trying to make sense of all the wonder my suburban surroundings afforded, using graphite pencils, tiny scraps of paper and a bright pink pot of Perkins paste.
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I am trying to glue little numbers onto the backs of several cicadas my brother Simon and I had earlier wrangled from the branches of a huge old gum hanging over the roof of our parent’s garage. I’m not entirely sure what I thought this would accomplish, but it felt science-y; keeping a record of the creatures I was ‘banding’ on the off-chance I was able to re-catch the same individuals in the days and weeks ahead. If only the paste would hold.
Perhaps my interest was inherited; a trait hard wired into my genes. No doubt my mother was responsible for my passion for drawing, but where bugs were concerned - maybe I was subconsciously following in the footsteps of one of her more interesting forebears: the late Major RWG Hingston. He had been both a successful surgeon and an accomplished naturalist - the perfect career combination to ensure his inclusion in dozens of intrepid pursuits, including the collection of 10,000 insects on the 1924 British Expedition to Mount Everest. I smile now, knowing that had time travel been an option, our paths would have crossed many times...
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Excerpt: from the book's Introduction​​
Islands are an enigma. They account for just over 5 percent of the earth’s terrestrial area, and yet harbour a disproportionately high concentration of life. They are biodiversity hotspots, and conversely, bear the brunt of species extinction. Seventy five percent of all the mammals, amphibians, reptiles and birds we’ve lost in the last 1500 years, have disappeared from islands, largely due to human factors such as the overexploitation of natural resources and the introduction of invasive species.
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For Norfolk, that fate began well before Captain Cook named and claimed the island in 1774, heralding European settlement. Unbeknown to him at that time, an earlier period of occupation by Polynesian seafarers had already occurred, leaving many native and endemic species vulnerable to predation by Rattus exulans - a rodent (with a notoriously rapid reproductive rate) those early settlers had brought with them to breed up and eat.
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It is highly likely these voracious pests were responsible for at least one avian extinction on Norfolk long before the colonists arrived; an unknown species of snipe scientists only recently discovered, after digging up their fossilised remains...
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Since colonisation began we have lost eight endemic birds, our only mammal (a bat), at least two endemic plants, and an unknown number of insects - giving the Norfolk island group (which includes Phillip and Nepean, plus a handful of smaller islets and sea stacks) the somewhat dubious honour of having one of the worst anthropogenic extinction records on the planet.
Despite this woeful, litany of loss, there are reasons to retain our sense of hope. As we slowly change the way we feel about nature and respond to its historic demise. Even as we stare, globally, down the barrel of a sixth mass extinction, I’m inspired by local conservation efforts that have led to the recovery of several critically endangered species. Only to be overshadowed - in the best possible way - by new discoveries in the ocean that surrounds us, and the naturally forested areas that remain. Potentially, there are hundreds of undescribed species of insects here that may well be endemic, along with dozens of corals, nudibranchs and fish.
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Excerpt from Chapter One
I have always been an early riser. I love the colours in a pre-dawn sky and when there’s no wind? The sound of the ocean below. Calming, like the steady breath of a sleeping child. One morning, as I sat outside on the verandah waiting for my tea to brew, I watched the crescent of a waning moon rising from the horizon to meet Venus. There were a few scattered clouds drifting past the moon, so its light was diffused, allowing Venus to shine as brightly; effectively creating two stairways of light across the sea. I fancied for a moment the two orbs were lovers. Walking side by side. Sharing their celestial journey, but choosing to forge their own paths.
Years ago I actually tried to learn how to navigate across land using the night sky for reference, and while I still remember some of the key constellations that were there to direct me, I’d be completely disoriented these days, without Google Maps. Even in a familiar landscape I have an appalling sense of direction; God forbid if I was ever lost at sea! Oh, how I envied the early Polynesians, who had lived for a time on Norfolk Island. For the art of wayfinding was clearly integral to their cultural DNA.
Without the benefit of sextants and compasses Polynesian seafarers were able to navigate their way across the Pacific, taking their cues from nature. They were able to determine their position and direction from the stars, the moon and the planets. They could read the wind, the currents and the ocean swells, and kept their eyes peeled for clouds on the horizon and feeding seabirds, which would indicate the presence of land.
How these birds themselves find their way across the oceans is still something of a mystery, but science is not short on theories. Do they also track the movement of the stars when they have to migrate at night? Or do they rely on scents, wafting on the ocean breeze? What about infra-sound? Or the patterns created by polarised light? Or even variations in gravity? The latest thinking has set its sights on the earth’s magnetic field. Suggesting seabirds have their own biological version of a GPS. Giving adults the ability to recalibrate their journeys, even when they’re blown off course during huge storms and cyclonic winds.
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Slowly but surely, through observation, I am becoming more familiar with the comings and goings of our seabirds. And there’s an App that helps me with the planets and stars. I also know now, on any given day, exactly where the sun will rise. For its position marks - with metronome efficiency - the passage of any given year. Drifting back and forth between the waypoints for the winter and summer solstice. Somedays, when I can’t get down to explore our rock pools because of the swell, I wish I could channel the power of the Nuffka - our sacred kingfisher - and simply will the ocean to calm.
SACRED KINGFISHER, Todiramphus sanctus
According to Polynesian tradition, these magnificent blue birds hold control of the seas. We have one that sits on the same post every day, looking out over the ocean, totally commanding the view. Every now and then it will glance over its shoulder and look down into our lawn, eyeing off morsels that might be squirming or leaping through the grass stems, oblivious to their impending doom.
During the breeding season, our ordinarily solitary nuffka is joined by its mate. Not on the same post - but the closest one to it. I’m not sure where they are nesting on or near our property, but elsewhere on the island I have observed other sacred kingfisher couples excavating small chambers into road sidings or making use of hollows in trees. They may lay several clutches in any given season if the conditions are favourable, with both parents sharing the responsibility of incubating and feeding their chicks. Apart from the squeaking cries of hungry hatchlings, I’d never actually heard Sacred kingfisher adults communicating with one another until quite recently. So can now report, with a tiny twitter of authority, that they are not nearly as vocal - or distinctive - as their kookaburra cousins.