THE following is an extract from my book “The Outer Light” (2018), about life on Point Stephens Lighthouse in 1953, as told by eight-year-old Peter Jones, the son of light keeper Andrew and mother Joan.

The Move

I can still remember living in Sydney at Gymea opposite a poultry farm and flower and vegetable garden.

At that time, we lived in a garage on the block where my father was building our house.

From memory I don’t think that the house was fully completed when we decided to sell and move to Port Stephens where my father was to take up the position as one of the Point Stephens lighthouse keepers.

On arrival at Shoal Bay, the removalist unloaded us, and all that came with us in the van, which was then loaded onto our transport, the “Bomb Scow”, to head out to the Island.

We passed the torpedo tubes protecting the harbour, on the inside of Tomaree, that were built during the war years. Then it was out through the heads and up along the cliff face, of which concrete observation and gun turrets were attached to the cliff face.

All this to me at eight years of age seemed unreal.

When we got out of the heads we were at 45 degrees to the large swell.

The old Bomb Scow seemed to labor and shudder up each side of the swell before plaining at speed down the opposite side at a rate of knots.

We made it to the island jetty, disembarked via the basket, to begin what turned out to become a wonderful life’s experience and adventure.

The Island

On thinking back, it was like living on a farm, with cows, poddy calfs, horse, chooks, dogs, orchard garden and along with that the ocean providing fish and lobster in abundance.

We were never lonely or bored as there were always things to do.

Riding the horse drawn cart was so exciting and fun.

For my part, beach and rock exploring and fossicking amongst drift wood and stuff that was washed up on the beach and rocks was always fascinating.

On the north side of the island, which had deep water off the rock shore line, there was a deep crevice into the rocks where the remains of what was once a large boat that had been shattered, providing me with another good place to play and pretend.

We had no electricity, so no TV, only a battery powered valve radio, which after tea was spent listening to serials – Biggles, Dad & Dave and Yes What.

Shark Bay was where we kept a wooden sled, just above shoreline and a small row boat that was used to row out and set lobster pots.

Once out on the water we would look down into the water to check on the traps through a small box with a glass bottom that my father had made.

After seeing the sea bottom it was obvious why it was called Shark Bay.

Apparently, it was a breeding ground and nursery for Port Jackson Sharks.

During the war the Army must have occupied the island.

On the high hill there was a track up to the top, where the remains of a concrete slab could be seen that was for some kind of structure. Not far from the old jetty site were other concrete slab footings.

My father said they looked like the remains of old toilet holes, which if true, those seated would have had a lovely view across the water to Tomaree Headland.

Around Eastertime the mullet would start to run up the coast.

One fishing trawler would lay anchor off the point corner of the end of the Spit.

Several fishermen would camp up in a shed up off the beach, with a lookout positioned on the point. Boats with nets ready were stationed on the beach.

Once a school of mullet was spotted by the lookout, the men would launch the boats and row out dropping nets in the water and circling the schools of fish.

Often, we would sit on the hill and watch the men netting, and quite often sighting large sharks a little further out from where the men were netting.

The fisherman would then haul nets full of fish to the shore, which sometimes totaled tons of fish.

The men would sort out the fish and then warm themselves around a fire on the beach.

We usually ended up with a bag full of fresh fish from the fisherman.

Time to leave the Island

Our time had come to leave Point Stephens Lighthouse.

The weather had been bad for a few weeks and our departure had been delayed a couple of times. The decision was finally made with a break in the weather for us to leave.

We boarded the Store Boat (not the Bomb Scow this time) which was more of a trawler fishing boat.

Seas were big again on our departure, big deep troughs which seemed to be towering above both sides.

The skipper, Dad, Mum, Julie, Patch (my dog), Henrietta (the chook), the canary and myself, again in rough seas, heading to the heads of Tomaree.

This time after coming abreast of the cliffs, where the gun emplacements were, the boat stalled.

Everyone was quiet, except for the canary who continued to whistle loudly.

The men looked at each other while mum, Julie and I watched the giant swells crash into the base of the cliff and surge back out in a mass of foamy white water.

The men pulled the hatch up from the floor of the boat and Dad started pumping vigorously on the bilge pump as the skipper fiddled with the engine.

After what seemed a long time the engine started and we pulled away from the rocky cliff face, entered Shoal Bay and tied up at the Tomaree Jetty.

We were ever so thankful to be ashore and ready to start another adventure at Green Cape Lighthouse.

My Robinson Crusoe years

On looking back, I know how privileged and lucky we were.

It was such a great, healthy lifestyle, swimming, fishing, living on a farm, along with me pretending to be Robinson Crusoe.

My one regret was all those times trying to get away from my little sister.

Some 35 or so years later my wife Kay and I planned a picnic at Fingal Bay.

I checked up on the tide chart and low tide was about lunchtime.

When we arrived early I could see that the Spit was already high and dry, so we decided to cross over to the island.

The island was very overgrown as no cattle were there to keep the growth down.

It was as if I had an inbuilt map.

Although very overgrown I found my way around, finding the bay where the old jetty used to be, Shelley Beach swimming hole, where I was taught to swim, the oleander clump where the cattle used to shelter from the weather and the overgrown orchard and garden.

I had a lump in my throat and shed a tear as the paddock was overgrown and brown, the dwellings had been burnt to the ground by vandals – all gone!

It was so sad that no one was living there anymore enjoying those once magnificent surroundings and the lifestyle that I had enjoyed and was so fortunate to have experienced.

A lot of good memories of times gone by.

Times I will always cherish, along with feeling very privileged to have been part of the history of Point Stephens Lighthouse.

By John ‘Stinker’ CLARKE