On the map Yardie Creek looks like a massive river running into the ocean just in the south of Cape Range National Park, forming a natural boundary to Nyinggulara National Park (ex Ningaloo), both occupying the west coast of the Exmouth peninsula along the Ningaloo Marine Park (remember the one with the large fringing reef). Yes, the naming here got a little confusing. Upon arrival though the realisation takes hold, that even this impressive source of freshwater had to succumb to the dry season and is now nothing more than a saltwater reservoir, sustained by the groundwater level of the nearby sea, the lack of downstream flow allowing the wind to build a wide bridge of sand between the river mouth and the coast. Perfect for unexperienced four-wheeled drivers to get stuck. A sign with washed-out letters warns against crossing here, however, only confirming most in their idea that it is indeed possible. And why shouldn’t they be able to do it. In the end, a low tire pressure and confidence in one’s driving skills are almost all that is necessary to glide over the gripless surface. Just drive. Don’t stop. Don’t turn. Until the other side is reached. Afterwards the road turns into a succession of rollercoasters, swift and quick ups and downs, and relentless shaking until every loose object in the car has found a new resting place. Quite entertaining actually. Towards the west always the turquoise of the Indian Ocean, in the east first the low mountains of Cape Range National Park followed by endless flat bushland, knee-high shrubs and grasses as far as one can see. Tall trees wouldn’t survive here very long anyway, with the wind pushing in from the ocean, at strengths that prevent all tent-pitching efforts, cover everything near the beach and dunes with a thin film of sand and create fearsome currents in the shallow coastal waters. So, in it goes at one end of the beach and out at the other, kilometres of drift in between, perfect for snorkelling wouldn’t the rapid water flow not have this extreme cooling effect on the body. Wetsuits are useful after all. In the absence of tourist masses, the corals are even still healthy, still large blobs of faint colour decorated with tiny fish and large fish, noisy and noiselessly, the occasional turtle and shark and some almost invisible, transparent squids. What a difference towards Coral Bay though. They were really unfortunate. As the name indicates, it was once blessed with a forest of gigantic corals, right off the town beach. And then they all died. Now there is an atmosphere of a sunken world, meter-tall grey blobs, masses of rigid grey branches and shapes cover the sandy floor, sad, mysterious, like a memorial from another time, reminding us to be watchful, to take care of our planet. The tour guides remind us of that when they talk about reef-save sunblock. Some surprised faces, some knowingly nod. They take the group of twenty-odd people out on the boat to the place where the corals still bloom happily. Supported by a plane cruising tirelessly overhead, the manta-ray search begins. From far above the large trapezoidal shapes in the pale green water are easily visible, swimming calmly but steadily in search for food. Once one is spotted a whole fleet of boats arrive. One by one, they approach the gentle creature and drop a handful of curious tourists with mask down into the choppy waters to have a look for themselves at this beauty. The manta doesn’t care. Apparently, it is used to the engine noises. On the way back the boat is trailed by a couple of dolphins and it is not clear at all if they are happy to see the humans or keen to see them leave their habitat, their home, where every visit of a human soul can only disturb or destroy.