It is extraordinary the degree to which the currents of the sea can move sand.

One hundred and fifty years ago, if you stood at the top of the cliffs behind where the clubhouse now stands, on a clear day, roughly in the direction of the Bellarine Peninsula, you could just make out a small collection of buildings on the horizon. These rough wooden structures were the home of Horace “Schnapper” Williams, who had landed his boat on a large bank of sand in the middle of the Bay one day, and decided to stay.

“Schnapper” managed to eke out a living from the sea for the best part of forty years, living all the while on his gentle mound of sand. His 16-foot clinker-built dinghy with its squat mast and gaff-rigged sail became a well-known sight to dwellers on the eastern shores of Port Phillip Bay between Melbourne and Mornington. Once a week, he would sail (or, if there was little wind, row) to Sandridge Market (near modern day Port Melbourne) to exchange his catch of fish for some fresh butter or eggs, a hunk of cheese, or a box of fruit and vegetables. Mostly, though, it was fish that kept the wolf from “Schnapper’s” door.

Exactly where “Schnapper” found the wood to build his home has always been something of a mystery. There are several theories. Most of them centre around certain wrecks known to have taken place in the vicinity at around that time. These all seem rather unlikely, though, as he was close enough to Melbourne for the professional salvagers to have beaten him to the punch. More likely, he simply picked up a few spars here, or a length of decking there, as the remains of various tiny craft – too small for their demise to attract much attention – passed by, or simply washed up on his doorstep.

Alas, the end came with the spectacular storm of 1896. Needless to say, “Schnapper” was pretty good at predicting the weather, and on more than one occasion he had sought shelter overnight in the ti-tree around Sandringham, half expecting his home to be blown away in the night. So why did he get caught this time? Perhaps it was a freak weather event that more or less blew up out of nowhere and caught him off guard. Or perhaps poor “Schnapper” was just getting too old, and didn’t have the energy to make a last minute dash to the shore. Whatever the case, the storm took “Schnapper” with it. By morning, there was nothing left of the tidy little settlement he had spent so long creating. “Schnapper” himself was never seen again.

Pieces of wood believed most likely to have come from “Schnapper’s Bank” (as it became known – it even features on charts of the Bay as late as the 1950s) were reported washed up on beaches as late as 1937.

It was an ignominious end for a remarkable man. Then again, perhaps that is how he would have wanted it. He chose a life pitching himself against the elements, and it was inevitable that they would have the last word. Better that than ending his days in some squalid boarding house in the city.

Now, of course, there is no trace even of the bank upon which “Schnapper” chose to build his home. Such is the power of the sea.

N.B. This story is a work of fiction.

© Stephen Whiteside 28.11.2016