There are certain places I find creativity blooms. For me the ocean shore is one of those places. It's been a while since I've allowed myself a dose of that salty air and the strong wind off the coast of Western Australia. You could say I have been busy. What with the baby and helping hubby with his course. Taking a moment to go breathe in the air, let the wind carry away my worries. Watch the gulls lift and float on the currents of air. See the small children build and destroy sand castles. See the people walking their dogs, pumping their blood, chasing the dream of youth, smell the slick sunscreen and the meaty juicy aroma from the barbies in the park.

It might be something about all those things, but it could be that it takes me back to childhood. My earliest memories are of the beach, swimming, fighting the pounding waves. I grew up with salt water constantly in my ears and sand in the crotch of my togs. I would pull on my togs and present myself to mum claiming to be fully dressed. She'd snatch up straw bag filled with towels and hats and toys and cross over what was then called a highway, but hardly any traffic buzzed along at that time, and took us to the beach.

I grew so used to the sting of sunburn it became only a sensation of heat across my nose and cheeks and a tightness across my shoulders. Every morning for the first several years of my life I lived and breathed the beach. Apparently we visited a relative in snow covered Katoomba, in New South Wales, and I screamed and screamed. I was all of two and when they could finally get anything out of me, it was simply, "I c-c-c-cold, I c-c-c-cold." Nothing they did would please me. I sat crying in front of the fire refusing to remove my jacket, hat and mittens.

I still dislike the cold, even as an adult. Perhaps this is why the warmer weather inspires me more. It could have something to do with my dad, too. As a small child I was close to my dad. He took me down to the beach in the afternoons and walked in silence with me as I'd look for shells along the wet sand, toss some back into the shore waves, and drag seaweed in and out of the water. We'd sit for a time and listen to the lull and lapse of the waves until the tide went way out and we could walk where earlier in the day we'd swam.

I'd return with him and sit and watch him work the planks of wood and later foam, into surfboards. The overwhelming fumes of catalyst there in the shed, the long strands of fibreglass, the lumps of coloured resin on his shorts and shirt, the dust on the floor. I'd watch him sand the boards through their various stages, watch him lay the sheets of fibreglass onto the boards, mix the resin. I'd watch his face, half covered in a hankie, until someone made small moulded masks for jobs like his.

I'd sit and watch, always silent, learning from his methods and just being in his presence. I don't know when that changed. One day I left home and realised I didn't even know my father. I didn't even know how to speak to him. The companionship of my younger days had turned into silence and anger of adolescence. But whenever I think of the ocean I think of dad. To me the two are inseparable. I could rely on the tide to come up to the top of the shore and make the white sand dark and damp. I could rely on dad to be there. I could depend on the later return of the tide and the off-scent of drying seaweed in the burning sun. I could depend on dad. He taught me to swim, to listen, to watch for rips and how to swim out of them. He taught me to be still and know the silence of beauty.

These are the places I return when I need inspiration; the beach and the memory of my dad. He's been dead some 16 years now. The ocean connects me to him still, even though I can never gain access to him again. A letter I wrote to him some five or so years ago, which could never be sent, was published in several places on the internet and even found a home in an English language text book for Chinese students. I found that significant. It was also about the time my writing really broke through into a new level.

I suppose the point is the places you find inspiration will really speak to others, too. You should never be afraid to use them as tools to writing better fiction and non-fiction. Anyway, I'm done for the day.