Blackmans Point Yarn

Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples are advised this story reflects on colonial violence inflicted upon Aboriginal people and contains the names of deceased persons.

‘Blackmans Point (southern side) is a place I lived with my mob. All the children were brought up gathering and eating fish, crabs and oysters from the river.’ 

We lived on the banks of Fernbank Creek that flowed into the Dungang, ‘Hastings River’. There was an abundance of wildlife, and it was a place of play, adventure and connection.

The mob talked about a massacre of Birpai people on the northern side of Blackmans Point. As a child I didn’t understand what this meant.

I was a little girl at the time I went fishing with Uncle Trevor. We left the riverbank on the southern side and headed towards the northern side, near the entrance to Maria River. The family called this place Guulawaa.

This is where Uncle Trevor set his net to catch the fish. In this area I felt a deep sense of sadness because of this big emotion. I have a strong memory of this event.

My poem Blackman’s Point Yarn — dedicated to Uncle Trevor Rumble and Birpai Ancestors — is an expression of the memory, the sounds, the feelings and the thoughts that capitulate this experience.

Blackmans Point Yarn — Dr Aunty Rhonda Radley

The push off from the shore, guides the vessel into a silent, dark place.
The breath of Uncle and the Watcher, emerges with the hums of the land and river life.
The tug of swirling water tells us the river crossing is ahead.
The mist floats above the water, the river appears like a black silk blanket.

The paddles glide through the water.
The boat creaks and moans, as its belly moves to the rhythm of the pull.
The sounds of moving parts act as a backdrop to Uncle’s breath.

The ancestors are felt, the bumps on the skin appear.
The shore is close, the sandbar is submerged, Guulawaa rock is known to be near.
The screams of the killed, soundless throughout this point, the heart is still.

The stillness and noise of movement magnified while the emergence of truth rests.

The paddles glide through the water.
The boat creaks and moans, as its belly moves to the rhythm of the pull.
The sounds of moving parts act as a backdrop to Uncle’s breath.

The net’s corks squeak and the leads click and clack.
The noise of a net being rolled out from the boat, amplified in the stillness of the night.
The thrashing of river life, trapped, imprisoned in a weave of thread, echoes across the water.
The huffs and puffs escape from Uncle’s mouth, as the net and catch fill the boat.

The paddles glide through the water.
The boat creaks and moans, as its belly moves to the rhythm of the pull.
The sounds of moving parts act as a backdrop to Uncle’s breath.

The vessel touches the wharf with a thud, the night is done.
The sun finds Uncle separating the catch and cleaning the net.
The memories of the night, imprinted in a little girl’s might.
The story of the river and the ancestors, forever resonating through time and space.