Tag Archives: Travel

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.

How Christchurch Rebuilt: A Teacher’s Impact Post-Earthquake

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In the early days of Christchurch, the land stretched wide, a mix of windswept plains and hills. Settlers arrived in the 1850s, their sights set on building a town that mirrored the English countryside. The church was their anchor, its stone walls rising as a symbol of permanence. People built their homes, simple and practical, with a nod to European architecture. The streets grew in orderly lines, the town unfolding in a neat grid.

But the land was not just their own. Long before the settlers, others had lived here, fishing in the rivers and gathering in the forests. They had their own ways, their own connection to the land. The settlers did not ask, but they knew. They felt it in the wind, in the way the hills stood like silent watchers.

As Christchurch developed, it became a center for culture. Its theatres and academic institutions grew, offering a mix of European influences with a touch of local pride. By the early 1900s, it had taken on another identity—an Antarctic gateway. Ships sailed south, departing from its ports, bound for the frozen continent. It was a role the city embraced with quiet determination.

The city had its share of hardships. In 2010, the earth moved violently beneath it. The September quake rattled Christchurch, shaking its foundations. Buildings swayed, some crumbled. But worse was yet to come. In February 2011, another quake struck, killing 185 people. Central city buildings collapsed, leaving scars in the heart of Christchurch. The recovery was slow, the rebuilding painstaking. Yet, the city stood again, its people resolute.

The stories of Christchurch are not just in its buildings or events, but in the lives of the people who called it home. One such woman was Sarah Gardener. Her name, at first, was not known beyond the small circle of friends and family. She lived quietly, her home tucked away in one of the older parts of the city. She was neither rich nor famous. But what she did left a lasting mark.

Sarah worked as a teacher. She spent her days with children, sharing knowledge, guiding them with care. She was a patient woman, thoughtful in her words. The world outside her classroom, however, was far from stable. After the earthquake, Sarah noticed something troubling. Her students came back different. Some were quieter, others more anxious. They had lost homes, friends, even family members. The trauma lingered, silent but present.

One day, a boy in her class, Tom, refused to speak. He sat at his desk, his eyes on the floor, and would not look up. Weeks passed, and still, no word. Sarah tried everything, gentle words, offers of help, but nothing broke through. She knew it wasn’t just Tom who was suffering. The whole community was.

One afternoon, Sarah had an idea. She gathered the children outside and asked them to share stories of the earthquake—not of the destruction, but of the things they had done after. At first, there was silence. Then a girl spoke up. “I helped my neighbor find their dog.” Another said, “I made soup for my grandma.”

Sarah turned to Tom. He stared back, his mouth set in a hard line. “I didn’t do anything,” he muttered.

“You survived,” she said, her voice calm. “That’s not nothing.”

The class ended that day without fanfare. Tom still didn’t speak much, but something had shifted. Over the next few weeks, Sarah noticed a change. Tom began to raise his hand, answering questions in class. He started talking to the other children again. Slowly, his silence broke.

Months passed, and the community of Christchurch kept rebuilding. Sarah’s story could have ended there, but there was more to come. She continued working with the children, helping them process their feelings, encouraging them to speak. One day, a parent approached her. She had heard of Sarah’s efforts and wanted to help. Soon, other parents joined in. Together, they started a small support group for families affected by the earthquake. It grew from there, becoming a cornerstone of the city’s healing efforts.

But there was a twist no one saw coming. Years later, during a citywide celebration of Christchurch’s recovery, it was revealed that the original idea for the support group hadn’t come from Sarah alone. Tom, the quiet boy, had written Sarah a note after one of their classes. In it, he said, “I think we should help the grown-ups too.”

The mystery was solved. The support group, which had helped so many, wasn’t just the result of Sarah’s wisdom. It was the idea of a boy who had once thought he had nothing to give.

Christchurch continues to rebuild, its streets echoing with the stories of the people who live there. From its colonial roots to its role as an Antarctic gateway, the city has grown, shaped by those who called it home. Sarah Gardener’s name is now remembered, not for being a famous figure, but for helping the city heal, one quiet story at a time.

In the end, it wasn’t the buildings or the landscape that defined Christchurch. It was the people—those who stayed, those who rebuilt, and those who, like Tom, found their voices in the silence.

The Pioneers of Port Lincoln: A Hidden History

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In the early 1800s, a man named Thomas Lipson sailed into the rugged coastline of what is now Port Lincoln. Lipson was charmed by the landscape. The harbor stretched out before him, calm yet full of potential. He admired the fertile land, which he thought would feed many people. But when Colonel William Light arrived a few years later, he was not impressed. Light faced the wild westerly winds, harsh islands, and jagged reefs that seemed to rise out of the water without warning. These obstacles gave him pause.

“It’s a trap for ships,” Light said, standing on the deck of his vessel, his eyes scanning the unforgiving coast. “No merchant ship will safely navigate here after a long voyage.”

Lipson disagreed. “Look beyond the reefs. The land will reward those willing to tame it.”

But Light shook his head. He saw no future for a settlement in such a treacherous spot. He was looking for something different—better farmland, fresh water, and safer shores for the city he envisioned. Eventually, he chose Adelaide for settlement, leaving Port Lincoln behind.

Even without Light’s blessing, others were eager to try their luck in Port Lincoln. The first settlers arrived in March 1839 on ships named Abeona, Porter, and Dorset. By the following year, the population of the town had grown to 270 people. They built stone houses and opened shops in an area that would later be called Happy Valley. It wasn’t a big town, but it had grit. The people who chose Port Lincoln wanted a fresh start, a place to build something new, and they weren’t scared of hard work.

The land was difficult, though. Early on, settlers struggled to grow enough crops to sustain themselves. The weather was unpredictable. Some seasons saw little rain, and the soil was not as rich as Lipson had believed. But they persevered. The pioneers built a hotel, a blacksmith’s shop, and a store. Ships came and went, bringing supplies and news from other parts of the colony.

Governor George Gawler soon recognized the potential of this growing settlement. On 3 October 1839, he proclaimed the whole area, from Cape Catastrophe to the Spencer Gulf, as one district. He named it the District of Port Lincoln, and for a time, people believed it might grow into a major city.

The Story of Martha Seaton

Martha Seaton lived in Port Lincoln her whole life. She was born in one of the stone houses built by the first settlers and spent her days by the sea. Like her mother and grandmother, she learned the ways of the land. She knew which plants could survive the dry seasons and which fish were best caught at different times of the year.

As she grew older, Martha became a respected woman in town. She was known for her quiet wisdom. Whenever there was trouble, people came to her for advice. But Martha didn’t say much. She listened.

One afternoon, she sat on the beach with her old friend, Mr. Harris. He had lived in Port Lincoln even longer than she had.

“They say the sea gives and takes,” Mr. Harris said, gazing out at the waves.

Martha nodded. “It has a mind of its own.”

Mr. Harris smiled. He had heard her say that before. “You’ve seen more than most of us. Do you ever regret staying here?”

“No,” Martha replied simply. “There’s always been enough. For me, anyway.”

But deep down, she knew she had kept a secret for years.

When she was younger, Martha had done something unexpected. She had built a boat. Not just any boat, but a small, sturdy vessel, made for one. She never told anyone why she built it, or what she planned to do with it. It took her two years to finish the craft, carefully choosing every piece of timber. She worked in secret, out by the rocks where no one came.

One night, after it was finished, she took the boat out to sea. There had been rumors of a hidden cove, far beyond the reefs. The sailors called it “The Quiet Bay,” and they said whoever found it would never want for anything again.

Martha set out at dusk. The winds were rough, and the waves slapped against the hull of her small boat. She steered with a steady hand, trusting her instincts. Hours passed. The town disappeared behind her. The moon was high when she finally found it—a calm stretch of water, hidden by towering cliffs. She stayed there for a while, alone with the stars, before heading back to shore.

She never spoke of it. No one asked.

Years later, when her friend Mr. Harris died, Martha was left with few companions. But the sea never left her. She went out fishing most mornings, sitting quietly on the rocks. One day, the townspeople noticed something strange—Martha had stopped coming to the market, and no one had seen her for days.

They searched the coast and found her boat missing. It seemed she had set out to sea again, but this time, she never returned.

People said she had gone to The Quiet Bay to live out her days in peace, away from the world. Others whispered that she had always known something about the sea that the rest of them didn’t.