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There's a moment at Sellicks Beach, just before the sun gives up on the day, when everything turns gold. The ochre cliffs glow. The white sand stretches long and quiet beneath them. The Gulf St Vincent holds the last of the light. This is the vast drama of the Fleurieu coast, gone soft and warm in the last of the light. Doesn't feel real half the time.
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Evening at Maslin Beach, looking out from the clifftop near Gulls as the sea goes glassy and the sky fades through every shade of pink it owns. This coastline is famous for its colour, the cliffs practically glowing orange at sunset.
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A single yacht anchored off Maslin Beach, doing absolutely nothing in the best possible way. I am assuming they’re drinking some local wine accompanied with glorious cheese on board. A boat is not what you think of when you think of Maslins in Adelaide, but on a calm day like this it's just clear water, ochre cliffs, and someone living their best low key sailing life a few hundred meters offshore.
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One surfer (my husband), one wave, caught from straight overhead at The Trough. There's a particular kind of joy to this break, paddling for position and waiting for the right moment while the swell builds somewhere out past the frame. If you’re lucky enough, sometimes you get it to yourself when the mid presents a rare swell.
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From up here, you see what you can't from the shore. The ocean opens up in layers, the beach curves below, a thin ribbon of white between the cliffs and all that blue. It's the kind of view that makes the coastline feel both vast and intimate at the same time.
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Some days, Port Noarlunga is a mix of calm and chaos. This day was a warm northerly on a winters day. The overhead sun was showcasing the blue water being disturbed by the white foam hitting the reef. You can tell it’s winter as there are not people lining the Jetty and water off the stairs.
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The Onkaparinga River fogs up like this more often than you'd expect, especially in the cooler months when the water holds onto the night's warmth a little longer than the air around it. This was taken near the bridge crossing across from the adventure playground.
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The old boardwalk out over the Onkaparinga, shot on film as the sun came up dead ahead. I love how the light rakes across the timber here, throwing shadows the whole length of the walkway. This spot is a favourite for early risers, whether they've got a camera or just a coffee.
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That dark patchwork under the water off Port Noarlunga is the reef itself, the reason this stretch of coast became a protected marine reserve decades ago. A rubber ducky speeds past the reef in this shot, probably heading out for a look at the same reef from above the surface instead of below it.
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Seaford Reef from directly overhead, the wave breaking into this stark white burst against water gone almost black. I like shooting straight down like this because the ocean stops looking like a beach and starts looking like something abstract, a texture instead of a place.
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Climb high enough above Sellicks Beach and the whole township lays itself out for you, roofs and roads tucked between the hills and the sea. This shot was taken from one of the roads that loop up through the reservoir, right as the light started to go soft and pink. It's worth it every single time.
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Waves working over the rock ledges below the Southport cliffs, lit up gold and red as the sun dropped low. This spot floods and drains with the tide in a way that turns the flat rock shelf into a moving, glowing thing right as the light gets good.
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Long after the sunset crowd packs up, the Southport river mouth gets a second act. The moon came up over the water while I sat with the camera on a long exposure, letting the sea smooth itself out into something almost silk. It's a quiet, slightly eerie kind of beautiful that most people never see because they've already gone home for dinner.
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Where the Onkaparinga finally meets the sea near Southport, the light does something completely different every evening. This one came in warm and low, turning the rock pools and ledges the colour of embers. High tide is the only time you have to walk this close to the cliffs, so I try to time these sunset walks around the tide rather than the clock. Getting stuck in the far corner near Triggs is rare but never a fun exercise.
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Moana on New Year's Day is a whole different animal. Every inch of sand gets claimed by a beach umbrella or a Rav4 parked right on the shore. I flew the drone up mid-afternoon and just laughed at how packed it looked from above, everyone chasing the same stretch of turquoise water on the first day of the year.