The track down is steep enough that you'll use the rope handrail, shoes slipping on damp leaves and moss-covered steps carved into the hillside. When you break through the canopy, the beach stretches before you—a hundred meters of gray-gold sand bookended by rock platforms dark with kelp. The wind carries salt and the clean scent of wet fern, and you'll likely have the entire cove to yourself.
“One of the Otways' few beaches where temperate rainforest spills directly onto the sand, creating a microclimate that feels more Tasmanian than Victorian.”
Credit: FlickrReef Motel, Esplanade, Torquay, Hervey Bay, October 1963
This isn't a swimming beach unless you're comfortable with frigid water and unpredictable rips. The surf pounds relentlessly, throwing white foam onto the shore, and the undertow pulls hard at your ankles even in the shallows. Instead, you'll walk the tideline looking for cuttlefish bones and smooth stones, or settle into the driftwood at the base of the cliff with a thermos and a book, the forest rising vertically behind you.
The isolation is the point. No kiosks, no lifeguards, no other footprints in the wet sand most days. Just you, the roar of the Southern Ocean, and the knowledge that the next landmass south is Antarctica. Pack everything in and out, bring layers even in summer, and give yourself an hour before sunset—the light through the eucalyptus turns the whole cove amber and rose.
