In my 2020 poem ‘Confessions of a Littoralist’, I declared: “The coast, not the bush, calls me | despite the smell of gums and the yellow of winter wattle … | We Australians are littoralists, | people of the coast, the shoreline, | the space between hills and water. | [While a few swim, surf or sail and the] | sea is a part of a collective unconscious | [for me] the water is touched lightly, | by slightly sandy, accidentally salty, feet | We need the shores of our dreaming, | but dreaming does not demand diving in | Or even getting wet”. Over eight generations, the settler-invaders’ world evolved between coast and mountains. In sprawling suburban cities, the water is often far away, and many, including me, feel uncomfortable in water. Our dreaming was shaped by footy ovals and indigenous and exotic suburban gardens. Despite Isolated Country Syndrome, worldly awareness is engendered by port cities, trade and immigration. A different side is parochial ignorance and fear. One cultural result is the other sea theme, the odyssey or journey, the ‘Big Trip’, once back to London and Europe, then Asia, now New York, which I addressed in the poem ‘Innocents Abroad’ – “We came by boat | Last of a generation”.