Just south of the Tropic of Capricorn, the first big red jumps in front of the car, scared by the unaccustomed noise, irrationally fleeing into danger’s way. The dirt road away from the North Western Coastal Highway towards the campground has brought along more endless stretches of flat shrubland, dark-red and grey-green until the horizon. An increasingly boring sight, if it wasn’t for the kangaroos. Surprise and amazement push the tiredness away up to the first glimpse of the ocean and the realization that until now, for all that time travelling along the northern Westcoast, there were no real waves to speak of. Here they come. Encouraged by relentless wind, the otherwise clear water is now topped with white foam cones, reflecting the sunlight in all directions, bulging intimidatingly while approaching the shallow waters only to break ferociously in a mess of white bubbles along the seagrass-covered rocky coastline. The thundering noise they must make is drowned by the wind. Pointed rocks and smooth boulders keep the anger of the ocean at bay, forming small ponds of salt and crab-filled lagoons, growing into tall cliffy overhangs where the sandstone softens, shaped by thousands of years of incoming tides. Good spot to catch a Giant Trevally. And release it again. Not a good spot for snorkelling, though. Too choppy, too murky, too sandy. On the map, the Shark Bay peninsula further south looks more promising, surrounded by a huge marine park, home to a large population of, well, sharks and dolphins, topped by yet another National Park, named after the French explorer Francois Peron. Several campgrounds plaster its western coast but only Monkey Mia on the east promises twenty-four-seven access to a multitude of the cunning marine mammals. Just the dolphins weren’t informed and didn’t show up to their daily feeding session. Hadn’t been for a few days. A heads-up would have been appreciated, preferably before paying the entry ticket. Never mind. The description of an awesome snorkelling spot up in the National Park is enough encouragement to tackle the tricky dirt road up to Bottle Bay. Several large warning signs make sure that everyone is aware of what’s ahead. Mainly sand. So, the air in the tyres has to go. Down to fifteen psi. High four-wheeled gear for the first thirty kilometres and when the sand keeps the car from moving on, a shovel and lower gear do the trick and take it all the way to the most northern point of the peninsula. Quite empty here, not many make it. But also stunning. Crimson-red cliffs merge into yellow beaches, surrounded by the turquoise water. The snorkel spot is a good hike away. Unfortunately, the visibility drops almost immediately. Someone forgot to check the tides, it seems. And it all would be a paradise weren’t it for the wind, the everlasting, never-tiring, ear-pounding, eyes-tearing, sand-spreading, hat-blowing, tent-shaking wind, and the flies. For the first time on this trip the head net becomes a simple necessity. Starting early in the morning, the annoyance levels increase dramatically with every additional black insect deciding that a nostril or the corner of an eye is simply the best place to be, not stopping long after the sun has set in the evening, only to be replaced by their equally annoying black little friends, the ones that sting. What a pity. One full day before patience runs short and less desert-like climates further south are being sought after. It could have been so nice, indeed.