Saving Seacountry

In one direction the beach stretches towards a distant vanishing point, in the other, the dark shape of a headland hammers into the shallow sea.

Positioned within the shelter of the Great Barrier Reef and a day north of the nearest town, Elim seems a world removed from our own

The land rover rattles down the hill towards the beach, and the sea and sand lace together through the windscreen, delivering a blinding glare. Over 1500 kilometres from Brisbane, Queensland's capital city, Elim is about as remote as you can get before needing an off-roading rig.

The horizon here is consumed by the sea, with the beach and steep dunes a footnote. Trees appear turn away from the ocean, with tall paperbarks and crouching shrubs arched inland by trade winds that curl into the bay for months at a time.

Here, running alongside the ocean sits Eddie's camp. The scattering of tents and trucks blends into the bushscape with surprising ease. Wildlife seems unbothered by the arrangement. Insects walk up the gums in marching lines, sea eagles sweep through the canopy, and mudskippers lurk among the mangroves that edge along Elim’s white sands.

One would expect this zeal to extend beyond the land, out into the bay –but instead, the ocean here is quiet. Old stories tell of behemoth sea turtles cruising these waters, with shells large enough for people to ride them like surfboards. Dugongs, the sea cows, once lay below the surface in vast herds, hidden from humans except for when they came up to breathe their heavy sighs of salty air. Today, Elim’s breath-taking dugongs and gracious turtles are rarely seen. I have come to speak with one of the few people who can tell me why. 

Ivan Deemal has lived alongside this seascape for over a decade, managing his family's traditional land. Eddie’s camp is the main access point for Elim beach, carrying the name of Ivan's father, a man determined to share his idyllic country with visitors. 

“I’m carrying on his legacy, he always wanted to set up a campground at some stage, and so he did that about in the '70s.” 

To say Ivan’s family have been living at Elim for a long time is a massive understatement. The Thiithaarr-warra people arrived in the area sometime in the past 50,000 years . Their culture and language are among the oldest on Earth. 

It’s a history told through stories that weave the iconic landscape into ancient times, stories that often lead back to the sea. Today, that focus on the ocean continues to flow through Elim’s lore and into conversations about the future. When I speak with Ivan about this future, the conversation returns to stories of the adored turtle and dugong. 

“My Dad always says that there used to be a lot of turtles in this area. That the turtles were always popping up, they were basically always there.” 

Ivan conjures up the older times with stories of his forefathers wandering the land, hunting in tune with the seasonal cycles of mullet, turtle, and dugong; taking when there was plenty and leaving species alone in the quieter months.

Sitting in the shade of Eddie's camp, history feels closer. A light breeze carries heat away and draws the smell of smoke in. Leaves ripple into shimmers of sound, a backing track that scores Ivan's words as he speaks of the science upon which hunting once relied. 

“In the old days, my father said that it [hunting] would only happen during the Christmas season, so about November to January. That’s when they did the hunting, and it was very rarely done at other times.” 

Reimplementing a short hunting season like that used in the past would help ease the strain on pressured turtles and dugong. Turtles are a migratory species and only frequent Elim's waters as visitors; Ivan suggests that turtles know when an area is dangerous, and the constant hunting at Elim has driven them away. Perhaps a break would draw in more animals, fostering a healthier catch when hunting.

Dugongs remain at Elim yearlong, raising their young during the cooler months. Guggu Yimithirr knowledge systems emphasised these cycles, and dugongs were only hunted during the months when babies were not present.

Recreating this balance would preserve local dugong populations. The rebirth of dugong numbers at Elim could allow the residents of Hopevale to visit the bay and see the gentle beasts perusing the clear waters once again - a hopeful idea. 

The second dilemma that the Bama Wii focuses on is how many animals should be taken from the beach each year. As the community has grown inland, hunting at Elim has followed suit

Ivan explains that in the past "there weren’t that many people, and the clans that were hunting were only small, less than 100 people, so they could survive on small catch”.

More hunting is taking place along Elim's shore than ever before, a worrying fact when contrasted with the precarious state of turtle and dugong populations. The Bama Wii suggests that the community train a ranger to watch over Elim, a guardian who could check catches and prevent overhunting. Special licenses for more take might be gifted to families for celebrations, like weddings.

The tide has rolled out again when Ivan and I finish talking; I pack away the microphone, and he slides the stack of Bama Wii back into their box.

A kingfisher gives a beady stare as I meander to the low tide mark to look for turtles: no sign today. Perhaps through a plan like the Bama Wii, more turtles and dugongs will frequent Elim. So, on days like this one, a wanderer might be able to gaze across the sharp reflections of the bay towards the inevitable headland and see a turtle's head bob up or a dugong take a breath: A return to the richness of Ivan's youth, of Guugu Yimithirr stories, and the Bama Wii vision.