Tag Archives: Fiction

The Hidden History of Weipa: Secrets and Displacement

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In 1895, Reverend John Hay set out to establish a mission along the junction of the Embley River and Spring Creek. It was an idea sparked by dreams of spreading faith and order in what seemed to him a wild land. He named the place Weipa, a word he had learned from the locals, which he thought meant “fighting ground.” Whether this translation was true or not, the name stuck, and so did Hay’s mission.

The early days were tough. The land was unforgiving, and the heat seemed relentless. But Hay pressed on, convinced that his purpose was divine. By 1911, the government passed laws that gave total control over the Indigenous people’s lives. The “Protector of Aborigines,” as the title went, held the authority to confine or expel anyone within the reserve. Families were torn apart. Children were forced under the guardianship of the state, their culture slowly eroded.

Years passed, and in 1932, malaria swept through the area, forcing the mission to move. They packed up and relocated to Jessica Point, about 28 kilometers away. The same mission, under a new sky. But the relocation didn’t make life any easier. By then, different groups had been forced into Weipa. Tensions brewed. Cultures mixed, and a slow simmer of conflict became inevitable.

The Discovery

In 1955, something happened that changed the course of Weipa forever. Henry Evans, a geologist with sharp eyes and sharper instincts, discovered something curious about the red cliffs that lined the reserve. The cliffs weren’t just earth and stone. They were rich with bauxite—the ore that produced aluminum. It was a discovery that sparked a frenzy, one that would ripple through the small town for decades.

The government quickly revoked the reserve status of the land. Mining companies like Comalco moved in, backed by legislation that handed over thousands of square kilometers of land. Mining started in 1960, and by 1965, it had reshaped the town. The old mission became known as Weipa South.

Yet, while some celebrated the new economy, many Indigenous residents were displaced, their homes lost to the mines. It was around this time that the local Presbyterian Church stepped away, handing the community over to the Queensland Government. It marked the end of one era and the start of another.

A Local Woman’s Secret

In the midst of this upheaval, a woman named Esther stood out. Born in the mission, she had witnessed the changes firsthand. Esther was known for her quiet strength. She didn’t speak much, but when she did, people listened. She had worked as a nurse during the worst of the malaria outbreak, saving lives when others had fled in fear. Her hands had held dying children, and her eyes had seen the suffering that came with both disease and displacement.

But Esther had a secret.

Years after the mines began to dominate the landscape, a rumor spread through the town. It was said that she had found something strange buried near the cliffs. Some whispered it was gold. Others thought it was something ancient, a relic left by the original inhabitants long before the mission was built.

One evening, Esther confided in her niece, Mara.

“There are things people don’t talk about,” she said. “Things they bury, hoping they’ll stay hidden.”

“What did you find, Auntie?” Mara asked.

Esther looked out toward the cliffs. “I found something that could change everything. Or maybe nothing at all.”

Mara pressed her. But Esther refused to reveal more. Instead, she left the next morning, heading toward the cliffs as she often did, walking slow but with purpose.

The Mystery Unfolds

The mystery of what Esther found near those cliffs lingered for years. Some believed she had hidden the gold and planned to use it to help the people displaced by the mining companies. Others thought she had discovered an artifact that could prove the land belonged to the Indigenous people, giving them a legal right to reclaim it.

In the end, neither story was true.

When Esther passed away, Mara, now an adult, found a small chest hidden in her aunt’s home. Inside was not gold or an artifact but letters. Letters from Reverend Hay, the founder of the mission. The letters revealed something shocking.

Hay had struck a secret deal with the early mining interests. In exchange for his cooperation and the mission’s continued funding, Hay agreed to allow the companies to exploit the land. The mission wasn’t just a place of faith—it had been part of the groundwork for the future mining operations that would uproot the community decades later.

Esther had discovered these letters during her work as a nurse, tucked away in the mission’s records. She had kept them hidden, not knowing what to do with them. If she revealed the truth, it could destroy the legacy of the mission and the people’s trust in their leaders.

In the final twist, Mara realized that Esther, the town’s quiet hero, had also been its villain. By hiding the truth, she had allowed the mining companies to push forward, knowing full well the cost it would have on her people.

The Truth Revealed

In the end, Mara chose to reveal the letters to the community. Some were shocked, others unsurprised. The town had always been a place of secrets. But now, at least, one of them had been brought to light.

And as the dust settled, the town of Weipa moved on, its history more complex than anyone had imagined.

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.

Martha Greene: The Mysterious Force in Rockstone’s Growth

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In the 1930s, Rockstone was a quiet town. Its streets were lined with simple homes and a handful of shops. The townspeople were hardworking, humble folk who didn’t expect much from the world beyond their borders. But Rockstone had its own peculiar history, and every now and then, whispers of something bigger stirred in the air.

Martha Greene had lived in Rockstone all her life. She was the kind of woman people liked to call wise. She didn’t speak much, but when she did, people listened. Martha ran a small post office near the town square. Her days were spent sorting letters and packages, listening to the comings and goings of her neighbors. She knew everything about everyone.

In 1935, a new fervor swept through Rockstone. The New England New State Movement was gathering momentum. Politicians and local leaders like David Redford were pushing for the creation of a new state in northern New South Wales. They wanted Rockstone to be at the center of it. People talked of opportunities, of growth, of the town finally getting the recognition it deserved.

“You heard?” one customer said to Martha one afternoon. “They’re saying we could be the capital of a new state.”

Martha raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

David Redford, the loudest voice in favor of the new state, visited Martha one day. He was a persuasive man, known for rousing speeches. He came into the post office, smiling wide.

“Martha, I’ve got a petition going,” he said. “We’re collecting signatures to show the government we’re serious about this new state. I know you care about this town, so I figured you’d be the first to sign.”

Martha looked at him, her face calm, betraying no emotion.

“David, do you think all this change will really make things better here?” she asked quietly.

“Of course,” Redford said with enthusiasm. “It’ll bring jobs, schools, attention. We’ll be a real city. Bigger than we’ve ever dreamed.”

Martha nodded slowly but didn’t pick up the pen he had placed in front of her. Instead, she asked, “What about the land, the people who don’t want all that?”

Redford hesitated. “Progress doesn’t always make everyone happy, Martha. But it’s for the greater good.”

Martha handed the petition back to him. “Sometimes, progress isn’t what we need.”

She didn’t sign the paper. David Redford left with a puzzled expression, but he wasn’t deterred. He collected signatures all over town, and soon enough, the petition was sent to the government.

Not long after, rumors began to circulate. Martha, who had always been a private woman, was said to be working against the movement. Some said she had a secret petition of her own. Others thought she was hiding something far more important. One night, a man named William Trask, a local farmer, claimed to have seen lights in Martha’s house late at night. He swore he heard her talking to someone.

“I don’t know what she’s up to,” he told anyone who’d listen. “But it’s not good.”

Martha remained silent, tending to her post office and her small garden. She offered no explanations, and the whispers grew.

One evening, David Redford came to confront her.

“Martha, there’s talk going around that you’re collecting signatures against the movement,” he said, his tone hard. “What are you really up to?”

Martha looked at him, calm as ever. “David, I’m not against progress. I’m just not convinced it’s the kind we need.”

Redford narrowed his eyes. “Then what are you doing?”

Martha sighed. “You’re asking the wrong questions. It’s not what I’m doing—it’s what the town is becoming.”

Redford left, more confused than before. But something about Martha’s words bothered him. He started to look deeper into her activities, asking around town if anyone had seen her meeting with outsiders or corresponding with political figures. Nothing concrete turned up, but the air of mystery around Martha grew thicker.

A week later, there was a break-in at Martha’s house. The thief didn’t steal anything of value, but he ransacked her home. Drawers were pulled out, papers were strewn about. The only thing missing was a small chest that Martha had kept under her bed for years.

The town was in an uproar. Some believed the chest contained letters from high-up officials, proving Martha had been working secretly against the movement. Others thought it was something more personal, a relic of a past relationship or a business deal gone wrong.

Martha, though shaken by the break-in, kept quiet. She didn’t reveal what was in the chest, and no one asked her directly.

As days passed, rumors swirled. William Trask, who had always been suspicious of Martha, insisted that the chest had something to do with the separatist movement.

“Mark my words,” he told his neighbors. “There’s more to her than meets the eye.”

Others believed the mystery was simpler. A woman like Martha had lived a full life, and maybe the contents of the chest were simply her personal affairs, none of anyone’s business.

But then, in a twist no one expected, Martha made an announcement. She called for a town meeting at the local hall. When she stood before the gathered crowd, her voice was steady.

“I know there’s been a lot of talk,” she said. “And I know you’re all curious about what was in that chest.”

The room fell silent.

“What was inside were letters from my late husband,” Martha continued, her voice calm. “They were personal, and they meant a great deal to me.”

A murmur spread through the crowd, but Martha held up her hand.

“But,” she said, “there were also letters from politicians, supporters of the movement. They wanted me to work against Rockstone becoming part of the new state.”

Gasps rippled through the room.

“Did I help them?” Martha paused, letting the question hang in the air. “That’s for you to decide.”

The room fell into a stunned silence. No one knew whether Martha had been playing both sides all along, or if the letters were merely offers she had refused. In the end, Martha left the stage with the same quiet dignity she’d always had, leaving the mystery of her true intentions unsolved.