Coastal notebook 1.0

I’ve gone full circle and moved back to the Peninsula. Some memories and reflections from week one.

Jack Banister

Jun 27, 2025

The beach

On a work call, someone asked me if coastal living is everything it’s cracked up to be.

“I knew a guy who moved to the coast but never went to the beach. Do you actually go to the beach every day?”

Not quite every day, but…

I love the way the ocean stretches out so far it seems to meet the sky.

I love the way the cliffs and rocks jut this way and that, shaped not by plans for the weekend or a meal that needs to be cooked or a work to-do list, but by the slow and constant mix of salt water and wind.

I love the waves, the way they play with us - a picture of order and rationality one day, a mess of chaos and rips and froth and spray the next.

I love the fact that it’s here at all, in this world but not of it.

Mostly I love the fact it’s there, always there and over there, an oxygen mask ready for those days when the world feels a little off kilter.

The freeway

It’s almost 24 years to the day since my family moved from Frankston to Adelaide, which means every exit ramp on the freeway is a little gateway to nostalgia.

I can take the Cranbourne Road exit and visit my seven-year-old self at Karingal Hub with Nan, peeling open a new packet of Pokemon cards.

Or I can drive to the now-renamed Karingal High School to see my parents, their story unfolding. They meet for the first time as teenagers of the late-70s.

They get together, then break up.

The 80s arrive. My Mother decides that my Father, to use her words, “matured a bit”.

They’ve stayed together ever since.

Back on the freeway, I can head towards the Golf Links Road exit and Kingsley Park Primary School.

I’m five, plunging into the world of education under the wise tutelage of Mrs Eddie.

We bump into her at a Richmond game at Colonial Stadium one day (Marvel’s still a decade away from conception), and give her a lift home. I’m so sick at the game that Mum buys me an extra layer in the form of a polar fleece jumper.

Michael O’Loughlin kicks goals for fun as the Swans win easily. With each goal, one fan waves a swan on a stick above his head. Dad desperately wants to incinerate it.

A little more driving and there’s Frankston Golf Club. I’m twenty-three, back here with Dad to visit the family friend who curated the greens for two decades.

There’s almost no information on the internet about this nine-hole course. It was built by a small group of families after World War 1.

The membership is tiny. There’s no pro shop.

In the clubhouse, built in the 1940s, we pay our green fees via an honours system, make cups of tea, and head to the porch to drink them.

Looking down to the ninth green, we can see the gumtree planted by HRH Duchess of York, the Queen’s mother, in the 20s. Queen Elizabeth herself visited shortly after the coronation in 1954.

But this trivia is forgotten by the time we tee off, and the only trees in mind are the ones that line the fairways.

The vegetation is worthy of any of Australia’s botanic gardens. But that’s not what Dad tells me when I step up to tee off.

“Elephant graveyard both sides here, Jack. You’d want to hit it straight.”

Time seems frozen as we walk round, at least until the 7th hole, a par four designed for the creaky wooden drivers of the 1900s rather than the titanium behemoths of the 2000s.

If I one day ascend to Heaven, and there happens to be a set of clubs at the pearly gates, I’ll ask God to kindly let me build a course that features this hole eighteen times over.

I know I can reach this green with a drive if I can shape it just right, right to left so it turns the corner.

I’ve come within six feet of a hole-in-one here.

Don’t tell anyone, because I left the eagle putt short…

Anyway, if the golf jargon hasn’t scared you off, come back to the freeway with me.

Soon, we’ll reach the Bungower Road exit. We can take it and head to the racecourse, where Dad’s introducing me and my older sister to his responsible gambling protocol, a parentally-imposed mandatory pre-commitment.

Ten bucks for the day. Don’t chase your losses.

Obviously you wouldn’t take your kids to the races to gamble in this day and age. Nor should you. Nonetheless, I think Dad’s rules did the trick for me. Education of the risks trumped prohibition in his 90s parenting playbook.

I use my last coins to pick a trifecta in the third race.

Box it, son, in case you get the right horses in the wrong order.

Not enough coins, Dad!

Second runs second, but third runs first and first runs third. The dividend remains a nose but a mile away.

A lesson learned.

Time to head for home…

Which means…music

Maybe there are two types of song - ones that are good for driving, and ones that are no good for driving.

With the Frankston exits behind me, the volume goes up.

So, in no particular order, here’s a top five that no one asked for but everyone will disagree with…

Burnley (Tunnel Vision) by Picket Palace

Okay, disclaimer. I’m probably hitting this before I leave Melbourne, especially if I’m driving through the tunnel (duh).

Notable mentions for lyrics like…

“The clock on the silo’s showing dollar signs.”
“I don’t want a f*ckin’ E-tag.”

But I reserve all gold stars for this bridge…

“Attention all drivers - this is the CityLink control room. There are delays on the West Gate Freeway. Motorists are advised to drive carefully, maintain a safe braking distance, and observe the reduced speed limit. CityLink thanks you for your cooperation.”