Among the driftwood, a set of diving goggles, less the lenses, or a tatter of neoprene. All calculated to annoy a man with a liking for order. From the dinghy that takes you from launch to shore, barrels of gear and container after container of water are muscled up the red clay slopes to the shallow platforms on which the tents will be pitched. In the distance the sea laps on the rocks. Night is another matter.
Middle Island is warrened with seabird burrows.
Little blue penguins have a cry that is the stuff of bad horror movies. The seabirds and their guano support a complex menagerie of creatures. Most are nocturnal. There are geckos suspended in foliage, large skinks rustling through the leaf litter, and a host of invertebrates with complicated scientific names, which are spoken of in shorthand. This last said as a glimpse is caught of a tuatara tail flicking into a burrow.