Life alongside
A new year
The office closed, routines loosened, and the calendar ticked over. Living in Tasmania means that the weather is often front of mind. The Tasmanian cliche of ‘four seasons in one day’ seems to be in full swing. Over the last week we’ve had clear, warm and bright days, others that were cold and clouded over, passing showers, and days with a little bit of everything.
I’m lucky enough to live looking over the Timtumili Minanya, River Derwent. Each time the weather shifts, the light changes, and the river looks different.
After months of wind and cold, even these short stretches of warmth feel noticeable. I’ve been keen to make the most of it - staying outside a little bit longer. It has felt easier to move around without needing to brace myself against the wind.
With a few days off, I have spent time moving around the south of the state. Walking along the Derwent foreshore and around to Shag Bay. Riding along the estuary paths. Venturing round the Coal Valley. Swimming on a rainy day at Taroona, while Sydney to Hobart yachts were still making their way down the coast and up the river. And a gorgeous swim and relax on a sunny day at Spring Beach in Orford. None of it was planned or scheduled. I was just out and about, with loved ones and time to pay attention.
Light and life
Some days the light is sharp and clean. Other days it’s flat or softened by cloud or haze. In the car, things move quickly. On the bike or by foot, things slow down. And when I’m swimming in the water, everything narrows. I’m limited to my breath-hold, my mask’s field of view, and my tolerance to the chill. I love the feeling of gliding through the water amongst the seaweeds and fish.
Each way of moving shows me something different.
Walking, riding, and swimming make it easier to notice what’s close.
White-faced herons hang on the low-tide, at the edge of the water, barely moving, except to snag a small fish. Native hens move their chicks across open ground and saltmarsh, stopping often to scan for danger. A mother bandicoot with a full pouch gnaws on a grub and disappears into cover. Masked plovers hold their place near the road and paths. People and dogs pass along all day. Grebes burst up and down through the water, looking like the cutest fluffy dumplings. Cormorants perch and dry their wings.
These are not unusual sightings on the edge of our city. It’s fairly normal and ‘every day’. Perhaps that’s why it’s sometimes easy to overlook.
This is nature getting by, alongside us.
Water and movement
Along the river there are grebes and oyster catchers working the edges. Ferries go back and forth, steady and full, people heading to work or home from Bellerive or to visit MONA. The Sydney to Hobart boats have been steadily coming in, one by one, crews are finally finishing their challenging journey.
There’s a lot of movement on the Derwent.
Near the punts, rubbish has collected in pockets where the water slows. Jellyfish drift just below the surface. There are plenty of them, enough to remind me of last summer as well.
This year, like last, there have been blooms across the east coast and in the Derwent - jellyfish, salps, algae. I don’t feel certain about what that means this year. But noticing the same things again, makes me pay more attention to patterns.
On the surface, the waterway still looks nice. But given the number of years I have swam, worked and studied in these places, there’s still a question of change hovering.
Productive, pretty, and shared
In Taroona, rain fell lightly while I swam at the beach and the Marine Reserve with friends, and in the distance, yachts raced each other up the river.
Further inland, in the Coal Valley, cherries and apricots felt warm in my hand and were a delicious treat. Trees hang heavy with fruit. Rows are planted, watered, harvested. It’s clearly a working landscape. It’s productive, and part of the same system that feeds into the river, lagoon, and ocean.
Following that road to the coast, I ended up at Spring Beach in Orford. The sand was bright and the water was clear and easy to get into. Maria Island sat quietly on the horizon.
Above the surface, these places are thoroughly beautiful and buzzing with movement, celebration, and arrival (of the yachts, and finally of summer). Below the surface, fish and seaweeds persist quietly, weaving around blooms of salps, jellyfish, and green algae. I drift and watch, noticing how the water we share, enjoy, and use, holds so many different truths at once. It’s productive, beautiful, playful, and fragile.
Staying with it
As I head back to the office, I’ve enjoyed seeing the reminders of how much life exists right alongside us.
It’s not tucked away or far removed. It’s here in Hobart, on our doorstep, near the paths, under the ferries, around our gardens and at the docks.
Nature survives and adapts as it goes, even in the middle of our daily lives.
In 2025, friends and colleagues encouraged me to write and speak from a less filtered place. I’ve always had the knack for policy, strategy, science, and “government speak” - filtering thoughts and observations into something neat and useful. In 2025, I gave myself permission to feel, speak and act more from the heart, to reflect more openly when something matters to me.
So, as 2026 gets underway, I’m choosing to keep up this practice. And pay attention. Ferries will keep crossing. Jellyfish will keep drifting at the docks. Birds will keep raising young where they can. The water will stay inviting, even when it carries things I don’t fully understand.
And I will keep working to repair, restore, and care in whatever way I can. Nature needs us, and we need it. I strongly believe that by strengthening nature, we can help secure Tasmania’s future.
Footnote
While I’m the CEO of an organisation that works to keep Tasmania’s natural and productive landscapes healthy over the long term, these reflections are personal (shaped by time, place and islands) and don’t represent any organisation’s formal position. Photos are my own unless otherwise attributed.