Jurien Bay. That’s where the sea lions are, informs a tiny green flag on the map, a marker set a while ago following the hearsay advice of a random stranger met on the road. Enough to render it the next destination halfway towards Perth. Upon arrival, it crystalizes though that a few more pieces of information would have been helpful, especially the ones that clarify that the sea pups barely visit Jurien Bay itself but a trip to Bullanger island is recommended, a few kilometres out west in the Indian ocean, too far to swim, as the clerk at the visitor’s centre emphasizes several times, as if that was ever a viable option. But how to actually get there seems to be less clear. A tour could be taken, but then the snorkelling time in the reef-surrounded paradise would be limited. One could roam the harbour early in the morning and see if one of the private fishermen heading out that way is up for some spontaneous company. It is more a question than an answer. Very unconvincingly. But then a thought illuminates his face. Anyway, the best snorkelling spot in the area is Point Louise. A half-hour- drive back north but worth it. Hundred-percent visibility at all times and natural shielding from the continued choppiness of the ocean. As if the previous lesson about following one single person’s recommendation wasn’t quite memorable enough, off it goes to Point Louise, only to discover that while the description of the snorkel spots was accurate, the rest of it all is less than pleasant. Patience-testing winds, stubborn swarms of bees, and a general unsuitability for fishing create tension and the wish to immediately leave again. On to the next hear-say campground, Sandy Cape. Life and its lessons have clearly no chance against human stubbornness. However, this time conditions turn out quite accommodating, as made obvious by the number of visitors frequenting this place. Contrary to times and dates becoming increasingly irrelevant to a long-time traveller, the rest of the world still follows a tight work-and-vacation schedule, upon which hundreds of minds simultaneously decided that right now is the time to take their kids and/or dogs, fill up their caravans and relocate their complete households out of the city and unto the beach. Apparently, Christmas is approaching, and summer holidays. A strange concept for Europeans. Sun. Beach. Camping. Little plastic Christmas trees and disturbing Santa Claus figurines that decorate the desk of the campground host. A camper who complains that there is no Wi-Fi. Only the pair of giant grey stingrays is happy about the attention from the beach goers, especially the fishermen, hand-feeding them scraps of their plentiful bounty. Underwater the world has changed dramatically from the one along the Ningaloo reef, several hundred kilometres further north. The corals are gone. In its place there are forests of seagrass, red ones, green ones, purple, yellow, orange and brown. Lush, grass-like ones, several centimetres up to a meter deep. Webs of branch-like ones with leaves, deep enough to swallow whole schools of fish. Singular, tree-like ones with tiny, round berries. Mossy, soft ones covering mussel colonies attached to rocky surfaces. Clouds of detached grasses, leaves and branches floating with the tides, bringing food for cheeky little octopi hiding perfectly camouflaged in tiny rock caves. Differently coloured patches, loosely attached to the ground, form a never-ending carpet on the ocean floor, gently sweeping in all directions with the waves, causing slight nausea in the fascinated observant. Water conditions must have changed as well compared to further north, since suddenly Jellyfish are constant snorkel companions. The small, transparent ones. Not really dangerous but still painful. Especially a swarm of them. Maybe a stinger suit would be useful after all. Like the one the surprisingly large number of spearfishermen wear, equipped with the pointy tool, an impressive ability to hold their breadth and an innate fear of sea lions. ‘Unpredictable, worse than sharks’, one exclaims as he hears that one was spotted just a few hundred meters off his hunting ground, and cuts his trip short. A warning signal?