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The Mystery of USS Pelican: Exmouth’s Hidden Story

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The town of Exmouth, as it stands today, hides a layered history beneath its tranquil shores and the steady hum of tourists. Established during the Second World War, it was initially conceived as a critical naval base, a lifeline for Allied submarines struggling against the Japanese. Officially known as “Potshot,” this spartan outpost provided the means for refueling submarines after the retreat from Java in 1942. Its remote location made it ideal—far enough from air raids that plagued cities like Darwin and Broome.

The base was no glamour post. It was bare-bones, centered around a 500-ton unmotorized refueling barge, anchored at the mouth of Exmouth Gulf. Here, sailors found a strange reprieve from the war—sun, sand, and the bitter sense of isolation that came with knowing they were part of something secret and dangerous. Admiral James F. Calvert would later write about the base in his memoir, describing its harsh conditions and the daring men who rested there only to return to the dark waters below.

Potshot was also a launching pad for covert operations, such as Z Special Unit’s raid on Japanese shipping in Singapore Harbour in 1943. It was an audacious mission, known as Operation Jaywick, that disrupted enemy supply lines, a thorn in the side of the Japanese navy.

In the years that followed the war, Exmouth grew slowly, as few could imagine life beyond the military. But one local woman, Isla Greene, saw something others did not.

Isla was a guide, part of a small group of locals who had taken to showing tourists the remains of the military base. “There’s a story behind every stone,” she would say, her voice strong but her face lined with the quiet patience of someone who had seen more than most.

One day, Isla stood on a windswept ridge overlooking the Gulf. A small group of tourists, cameras at the ready, huddled close as she told the tale of Potshot. “This place was once alive with the buzz of fighters,” she said. “Men who came here knowing they might not go home. And then,” she paused, “there was the mystery of the submarine.”

A man from the group raised his hand. “What mystery?”

Isla smiled. “Back in ’42, a submarine never came back. The USS Pelican was meant to refuel here. Never made it. No wreckage, no radio signal. Just vanished.”

The tourists exchanged puzzled looks. “What do you think happened?” one asked.

“Two theories,” Isla replied. “One says it was caught by a Japanese sub. Ambushed at night. Never stood a chance. The other—more local—is that it’s still out there. They say it’s stuck in the reef, hidden deep where no one has found it.”

“Has anyone looked?”

“Of course. Many have. But the ocean is a vast thing. It doesn’t give up its secrets so easily.”

Over time, Isla became the unofficial keeper of the town’s history. She knew every rusting remnant of Potshot, every story passed down by old sailors. But there was more to Isla than her tours.

In 2009, something happened that few in Exmouth had ever experienced—a modern brush with disaster. A Qantas flight, QF72, bound for Perth, had to make an emergency landing at the nearby Learmonth Airport. The cause was a failure in the plane’s ADIRU, which confused the angle of attack with altitude, making the aircraft believe it was in a steep pitch. In a panic, the plane forced a sharp nosedive, causing passengers to float weightlessly in the air. No lives were lost, but several were injured.

Isla had been among the passengers. That day changed something in her. She began spending more time alone, walking along the coastline, staring at the sea as though it held answers. When asked, she would only say, “You look at life differently when the earth falls away from under you.”

One evening, a year later, Isla sat at her usual spot near the shore. A young fisherman approached her. “Isla,” he said, “I think I’ve found something.”

She looked up. His face was pale, eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and fear. “Found what?” she asked.

“A wreck. Not far from the reef. It’s big. Could be a sub.”

Isla’s breath caught in her throat. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “I haven’t told anyone yet. Thought you should know first.”

Isla stood slowly. “Take me there.”

The boat ride out to the reef was silent, the air thick with anticipation. As they neared the spot, Isla could see something dark beneath the water. The shape of a submarine—corroded and broken, but unmistakable.

“That’s it,” the fisherman whispered. “The Pelican.”

Isla gazed down at the wreck. Memories of her old tales, her conversations with tourists, flooded her mind. “So it was the reef,” she muttered. “All this time.”

The fisherman frowned. “Or it could’ve been something else. Maybe it wasn’t the reef. Maybe it was attacked, and the ocean just brought it here.”

Isla’s eyes narrowed. “Or maybe the sea just kept it hidden until now.”

The mystery seemed solved, but not entirely. Some would say it was a simple wreck. Others would claim something more sinister—a final ambush, perhaps, hidden under the guise of nature. But for Isla, standing there in the twilight, it was enough to know that one story had come full circle.

“Let’s leave it be,” she said softly. “It’s had its rest.”

As the boat turned back to shore, Isla watched the wreck disappear beneath the waves, where it had always belonged.

Eliza Dunn: A Pioneer of Warrnambool’s Wisdom

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The land of Warrnambool is ancient. The Merrigundidj people lived there for over 35,000 years. They built stone and timber weirs called yereroc across waterways. These weirs helped them trap eels. They knew the land, its rivers, its secrets.

At the mouth of the Hopkins River, there was a place called Moyjil. There, the Koroitgundidj people lived in a village near what is now Tower Hill. The area was rich in life, with kangaroos gathering to drink at a waterhole called Kunang. The hill known as Puurkar held significance, as did many other places in the region.

Then came the Europeans. The first to explore the land were mariners, men of the sea. In 1800, Lieutenant James Grant sailed the Lady Nelson along the coast. Two years later, Matthew Flinders came with his ship, the Investigator. French explorer Nicholas Baudin followed. They recorded the land, but it was the whalers who truly settled.

By 1838, Captain Alexander Campbell, a Scottish whaler, took possession of 4,000 acres near the Merri River. He built a farm there. The township of Warrnambool was planned soon after, in 1845, and the first land was sold two years later. The Post Office opened in 1849, marking the town’s growth.

Warrnambool grew fast. Whaling gave way to farming, and then came more settlers. Roads were made, and the town spread. But the people of the land—the Merrigundidj—were pushed away. Their weirs crumbled. Their village was gone. The town remembered them only in names: Kunang, Wirkneung, Peetoop. The past lived on, but faintly.

Among the settlers, one woman left a lasting mark. Her name was Eliza Dunn. She wasn’t rich. She wasn’t famous. But she was wise.

Eliza lived near the mouth of the river. Her family had come to farm. She helped in the fields, mended clothes, and kept the house. But what made her special wasn’t her work—it was her understanding.

One year, the rain didn’t stop. The river swelled, and people feared it would flood their homes. Some spoke of moving. But Eliza said, “Wait. The river will find its way.”

Her words seemed simple, but people listened. Eliza watched the river, walking its banks each day. She spoke to the elders, both settlers and the few Aboriginal people who remained. “It will break to the east,” she told them. “It has done so before.”

Her knowledge came not from books, but from listening—listening to the land and those who had lived with it. Sure enough, after days of rain, the river swelled eastward, sparing the town. People marveled at Eliza’s foresight.

One day, she stood by the river, speaking with a young woman from a nearby farm. “How did you know?” the young woman asked.

Eliza smiled. “The land speaks. It tells us what it needs. If we listen, we can live with it.”

Her wisdom spread. Farmers began to consult her on matters of the soil and seasons. When to plant, when to harvest. “What does the land say?” they would ask. And she would answer, always humbly, always with care.

But Eliza’s story was not just about land. She was also known for her kindness. One winter, a traveler came through, cold and hungry. He knocked on Eliza’s door, seeking shelter. She welcomed him in, fed him, and gave him a place to sleep.

“Why are you so kind to strangers?” a neighbor once asked her.

“We are all travelers,” Eliza replied. “Some of us just don’t know it.”

Her words carried weight. Simple truths, spoken softly. People remembered them long after she was gone.

Eliza passed away in her home by the river. She was not rich. She was not powerful. But her wisdom lingered. The town grew and changed, but those who knew her never forgot her words. Her story became part of Warrnambool’s history.

Years later, when the river swelled again, people remembered Eliza. They watched its course, knowing it would find its way, just as she had said.

And so, Warrnambool grew. It became a place of farming and trade. The land, once home to the Merrigundidj, changed hands many times. But the memory of the land’s first people, and the wisdom of settlers like Eliza Dunn, remained. The town carried their stories, woven into its fabric, just as the river wound its way through the hills and out to sea.

Eliza’s words lived on. “The land speaks,” she had said. “If we listen, we can live with it.”

Discovering Mataranka: From Elsey Station to Tourism

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Mataranka, a small town with a big history, was born out of the harsh Northern Territory landscape. Its roots lie in the pastoral industry, and it all began with the establishment of Elsey Station. In 1879, Abraham Wallace, a man of ambition, claimed the first pastoral lease in the area. With his nephew J.H. Palmer, they drove thousands of cattle through treacherous terrain from Bowen Downs to the Gulf, finally settling by the Roper River at a place called Warloch Ponds.

The area was wild and untamed, and so were the men who came to work it. Wallace didn’t live long to see his dream prosper. Eight years after founding Elsey Station, he ended his own life, leaving the station to change hands many times over the years. The Station, however, became legendary, largely due to the story of Jeannie Gunn, a woman who came to this rugged land as the wife of Aeneas Gunn in 1902.

Aeneas was the new manager, and Jeannie was the outsider, but she quickly fell in love with the Territory. She witnessed her husband’s sudden death within months of their arrival, a tragic event that could have broken her spirit. But Jeannie was strong. She stayed long enough to absorb the stories and characters of the land and later wrote them into what became one of Australia’s classic books, We of the Never Never. Her words immortalized the people she met: Henry Peckham “The Fizzer,” Jack Grant “Horse Teams,” and Happy Dick, to name a few. Though she left the Territory, it never left her.

By the 1920s, the town of Mataranka was slowly coming to life. After many years of debate, the railway arrived in 1928, though it didn’t stretch far. It stopped at Birdum, a full 80 kilometers from Mataranka. The townsfolk joked about it being the end of the line, but in truth, it marked a new beginning for the settlement. The town was surveyed, streets named, and enterprising residents set up shops and businesses. Among them were Chinese storekeepers like Charlie On, and Mrs. Fisher, who turned her boarding house into the Elsey Inn, a landmark that would stand the test of time.

World War II brought change to Mataranka as it did to much of the world. Over 100 military units were stationed in the area. Mataranka became a hub of activity—headquarters, workshops, even ammunition dumps dotted the landscape. Amid the wartime hustle, the Native Affairs Branch assigned Aboriginal men and women to assist the Australian services, where their skills earned high regard. During this time, a memorial to Jeannie Gunn was erected at the Elsey Cemetery, near her husband Aeneas’ grave. Many of the real-life characters from We of the Never Never found their final resting place here as well, forever part of the region’s history.

When the war ended, another chapter in Mataranka’s story began. The hot thermal springs that had been a respite for soldiers during the war became the focus of a local man named Victor Smith. Smith, seeing potential in the clear, warm waters, returned in 1946 and set up a tourist resort. By 1949, he had built cabins, and travelers began flocking to the springs. The small town was now on the map, not just for its history but for its natural beauty.

Mataranka’s fame grew in the 1950s when the movie industry took an interest in the area. Parts of the film Jedda were shot here, but it was the adaptation of Jeannie Gunn’s We of the Never Never in the early 1980s that truly connected the town with its literary past. A replica of the old Elsey Homestead was built for the film, a physical reminder of the early days that still stands at Mataranka Homestead today. Tourists can watch the movie at the homestead’s bar, seeing on-screen the same land that had been captured in Jeannie’s words decades before.

Among the town’s notable women, one stands out—Rosa Dixon. Rosa wasn’t famous like Jeannie Gunn, but she was an integral part of Mataranka’s evolution. In the late 1920s, as the railway made its slow way south, Rosa saw an opportunity. She set up a small store, selling goods to railway workers and passing travelers. Her store quickly became the heart of the community.

It was in the 1930s, during a particularly harsh dry season, that Rosa did something remarkable. Water had become scarce, and the springs were no longer flowing as they once had. People were starting to leave, fearing that Mataranka would become a ghost town. Rosa, however, had a different plan. She hired local Aboriginal workers to help her dig a well near her store. It wasn’t easy, and many doubted it would work. But Rosa was determined.

“Keep digging,” she told her workers, day after day, as the sun beat down and the soil turned to dust. “The water is there. We just need to find it.”

Weeks passed, and still no water. Some of the townsfolk began to lose faith, but Rosa kept going. She had a quiet confidence about her. “Water always finds its way,” she said. “And we will find it too.”

Finally, one morning, a trickle appeared. The workers cheered, and within days, they had struck a steady flow of water. Rosa’s well saved the town. People who had left began to return, and Mataranka started to grow again. Rosa became a local hero, though she never saw herself that way.

“I just did what needed to be done,” she would say when people praised her. “The land gives us what we need if we’re willing to work for it.”

Rosa’s legacy lived on long after her passing. Her well remained a symbol of resilience and hope, and her store continued to serve the people of Mataranka for many years.

Today, Mataranka is a small town, but its history runs deep. From the founding of Elsey Station to the arrival of the railway, from wartime service to the rise of tourism, and from Jeannie Gunn’s timeless words to Rosa Dixon’s quiet determination, Mataranka has always been a place where the spirit of the land and the people shine through.