RUSSELL ISLAND’S TIME TRAVELLING STORYTELLER OF CHAOS

That woman is Suzsi Mandeville.

And from that moment of mild literary outrage, a writer quietly, and then not so quietly, emerged.  Well, she argues she’s not a “writer” at all.

“Creative,” she says instead. Because writers, in her world, wear scarves indoors and know what a semicolon is supposed to do.

Still, the evidence is stacking up, poetry, short stories, plays, and now three novels later, the label is looking less like a label and more like an admission.

She’s picked up a few awards along the way too, though she doesn’t appear to have let them interfere with her main priorities; painting, clay sculpture, gardening, renovation, and maintaining a respectful, long term relationship with the sea.

A good day, according to Suzsi, involves swimming or launching her little tinny out into open water, a ritual she describes less as leisure and more as “thanking the universe for not killing me today.”

Russell Island, she says, is the real muse. Not the romanticised version with sunsets and serenity, but the slightly eccentric, salt sprayed version where characters practically introduce themselves over the fence.

She’s even written a two act comedy set here. Naturally, it involves island eccentrics (names changed to protect the guilty and, more importantly, protect her). The plot? A floating airport proposed between the Southern Moreton Bay Islands to solve the plane noise problem. Because nothing says “community consultation” like launching a protest against aviation infrastructure that hasn’t been built yet.  Chaos and comedy, she assures us, is the point.

Suzsi’s writing process is less “discipline and routine” and more “possession with wifi.” She starts with an idea, then steps aside politely while the characters take over.

“I just take dictation,” she says, like it’s normal to have a committee of historical personalities arguing in your head before breakfast

One novel even featured an accidental murder of a lead character, a moment she handled by calling a friend in mild panic, only to discover said friend assumed she was referring to her husband and immediately offered help hiding the body.  That plot twist became the backbone of the book.

Her novels roam through history like they’ve been given a visitor’s pass and no supervision. Escape from the Valley of the Kings (Egypt, 1922), Escape from the King’s Company (London, 1666), and Escape from the King’s Island Prison (Tasmania, 1839). All anchored by Tiffany, a time travelling teenage goth with attitude, poor survival instincts, and a deep distrust of anything without plumbing.

Tiffany exists, Suzsi says, because of a simple observation made over a conversation with her partner, Pete.  Modern kids would not survive the past.  So, she decided to test it. Repeatedly.  On paper, with consequences.  Pete now plays the role of patient wine supplier and general witness to Suzsi’s creative chaos - a vital position in any serious artistic operation.

Suzsi cites James Clavell and Terry Pratchett as guiding lights; one for storytelling depth, the other for making serious points while making readers laugh when they probably shouldn’t.

That blend is fairly obvious in her work; history, humour, and a steady refusal to take anything too solemnly, including death, disaster, or continuity errors.

Her favourite scenes tend to involve people arguing across centuries, cultures, and injuries, including a Scotsman and a Frenchman attempting to “out wound” each other in what can only be described as historical competitive complaining.

When asked if her writing is autobiographical, she gives the only sensible answer available to anyone writing fiction while living on an island with chooks, renovation dust, and historical hallucinations.

“Mostly no, occasionally yes, sometimes the characters simply visit,” she says without irony or further explanation.

These days, Suzsi is re-editing and re-releasing her work, with more on the way. Books two and three are quietly lining up for release, while life on Russell Island continues to provide both inspiration and material, often in the same afternoon. She’s also part of Writers on Water, a group that meets monthly and is preparing a short story collection for Christmas. Presumably involving fewer floating airports. Though on Russell Island, nothing is ever entirely off the table.

You’ll find Suzsi’s stories on www.vocal.media and Amazon Kindle, just type Suzsi Mandeville into the search bar and prepare for the rabbit hole.




Read Story

4 min read

RUSSELL ISLAND’S TIME TRAVELLING STORYTELLER OF CHAOS

RUSSELL ISLAND’S TIME TRAVELLING STORYTELLER OF CHAOS

That woman is Suzsi Mandeville.

And from that moment of mild literary outrage, a writer quietly, and then not so quietly, emerged.  Well, she argues she’s not a “writer” at all.

“Creative,” she says instead. Because writers, in her world, wear scarves indoors and know what a semicolon is supposed to do.

Still, the evidence is stacking up, poetry, short stories, plays, and now three novels later, the label is looking less like a label and more like an admission.

She’s picked up a few awards along the way too, though she doesn’t appear to have let them interfere with her main priorities; painting, clay sculpture, gardening, renovation, and maintaining a respectful, long term relationship with the sea.

A good day, according to Suzsi, involves swimming or launching her little tinny out into open water, a ritual she describes less as leisure and more as “thanking the universe for not killing me today.”

Russell Island, she says, is the real muse. Not the romanticised version with sunsets and serenity, but the slightly eccentric, salt sprayed version where characters practically introduce themselves over the fence.

She’s even written a two act comedy set here. Naturally, it involves island eccentrics (names changed to protect the guilty and, more importantly, protect her). The plot? A floating airport proposed between the Southern Moreton Bay Islands to solve the plane noise problem. Because nothing says “community consultation” like launching a protest against aviation infrastructure that hasn’t been built yet.  Chaos and comedy, she assures us, is the point.

Suzsi’s writing process is less “discipline and routine” and more “possession with wifi.” She starts with an idea, then steps aside politely while the characters take over.

“I just take dictation,” she says, like it’s normal to have a committee of historical personalities arguing in your head before breakfast

One novel even featured an accidental murder of a lead character, a moment she handled by calling a friend in mild panic, only to discover said friend assumed she was referring to her husband and immediately offered help hiding the body.  That plot twist became the backbone of the book.

Her novels roam through history like they’ve been given a visitor’s pass and no supervision. Escape from the Valley of the Kings (Egypt, 1922), Escape from the King’s Company (London, 1666), and Escape from the King’s Island Prison (Tasmania, 1839). All anchored by Tiffany, a time travelling teenage goth with attitude, poor survival instincts, and a deep distrust of anything without plumbing.

Tiffany exists, Suzsi says, because of a simple observation made over a conversation with her partner, Pete.  Modern kids would not survive the past.  So, she decided to test it. Repeatedly.  On paper, with consequences.  Pete now plays the role of patient wine supplier and general witness to Suzsi’s creative chaos - a vital position in any serious artistic operation.

Suzsi cites James Clavell and Terry Pratchett as guiding lights; one for storytelling depth, the other for making serious points while making readers laugh when they probably shouldn’t.

That blend is fairly obvious in her work; history, humour, and a steady refusal to take anything too solemnly, including death, disaster, or continuity errors.

Her favourite scenes tend to involve people arguing across centuries, cultures, and injuries, including a Scotsman and a Frenchman attempting to “out wound” each other in what can only be described as historical competitive complaining.

When asked if her writing is autobiographical, she gives the only sensible answer available to anyone writing fiction while living on an island with chooks, renovation dust, and historical hallucinations.

“Mostly no, occasionally yes, sometimes the characters simply visit,” she says without irony or further explanation.

These days, Suzsi is re-editing and re-releasing her work, with more on the way. Books two and three are quietly lining up for release, while life on Russell Island continues to provide both inspiration and material, often in the same afternoon. She’s also part of Writers on Water, a group that meets monthly and is preparing a short story collection for Christmas. Presumably involving fewer floating airports. Though on Russell Island, nothing is ever entirely off the table.

You’ll find Suzsi’s stories on www.vocal.media and Amazon Kindle, just type Suzsi Mandeville into the search bar and prepare for the rabbit hole.




Read Story

4 min read

Magazine

June 2026 Magazine

June 2026 Magazine

Jun 5, 2026

1 min read

Author:

Bay Islands

WOMEN, WORK AND THE ART OF CONNECTION

There was a particular kind of charge at the recent Women in Business Breakfast hosted by the Southern Moreton Bay Islands Chamber of Commerce. Not noise, not formality, but something far more grounded; recognition. The kind that comes when a room is full of people who have built things the hard way and are finally given space to speak it out loud.

Set against the backdrop of local displays from Jules Sound Therapy and Wellbeing, Siobhan Demeester, Sandy Beach Studio and Writers on the Water, the event felt less like a formal breakfast and more like a snapshot of the islands themselves; creative, grounded, and deeply interconnected.

The morning opened with a performance from the Bay Island Singers before emcee duties were handed to Kimberley Priest; an interior designer and leadership specialist whose career has moved through high pressure sales environments, team leadership, and what she describes as “sales success without the stress.”

But it was the lived experience on stage that anchored the event, not just the frameworks. One of the most talked about speakers was Rhondda Vanzella OAM, who brought with her decades of regional leadership experience from Tumut, where she supported community initiatives during 25 years as Mayor’s wife, while also operating a retail business and working in agriculture with her late husband. Her presence didn’t need emphasis. It carried its own weight, the kind of authority that comes from decades of quiet, consistent contribution in regional communities where everything depends on someone stepping in.

Alongside her on the panel was OJ Rushton, known locally for her work with the Bay Island Singers and nationally for youth led creative initiatives including large scale reconciliation choirs and upcoming national participation goals. Sue McGrath, Vice President of the Chamber and owner of Bucks Earthworkz was the fourth speaker, and quite literally helped build the morning from the ground up. She prepared and served breakfast alongside her daughter Danielle and Danielle’s friend Kaydence, before stepping into the panel discussion.

Together, the speakers formed a loose but compelling narrative; leadership in regional communities rarely looks like hierarchy. It looks like persistence, systems, and showing up anyway.

Chamber President, Geoff Manu said the idea behind the breakfast was simple, but intentional. He described the event as a way to genuinely recognise the role women play across island business life, but also to create something more practical than celebration alone.

“It was about bringing people together, sharing stories, and showcasing the talent that already exists here,” he said.

For Geoff, the value of events like this sits in the overlap between business and community.

“We need to keep celebrating and showcasing what and who we have here. One thing I’ve learned in business is you have to have fun, and events like this give us that space.”

He said those connections matter just as much as any formal strategy.

“They strengthen local relationships, encourage collaboration, and help keep economic activity within our own community.”

One of the strongest themes to emerge from the morning was how often leadership in small communities goes unrecognised because it doesn’t arrive with titles attached. Geoff reflected that the room itself was proof of that.

“The event highlighted just how many strong female leaders we already have,” he said.

“Leadership here looks like resilience, collaboration, and quietly getting things done for the good of the community.”

The keynote address from local Russell Island postmistress, Kylie Purtell grounded the room in familiar territory; the everyday infrastructure of island life that often goes unnoticed until it doesn’t work.

Her story, Geoff said, resonated strongly.

“It gave everyone a genuine insight into one of our leading female business operators; someone who is well known, trusted and respected across the islands. That authenticity really connected with the room.”

Beyond the speakers, the breakfast also signalled a broader intent from the Chamber under Geoff’s leadership; to be more visible, more active, and more representative of the business landscape it serves.

The current Chamber includes seven elected members, four of whom are women; something Geoff says is already shaping direction. He also noted the changing makeup of the islands themselves.

“Our islands are growing and evolving, and with that comes new people, new skills, and new opportunities. Events like this help bring the new and the old together; because what and who we have here is already something pretty special.”

The Chamber is now calling for new members as it continues to expand its events program and local engagement.

Membership enquiries are being co-ordinated by Secretary, Jody Wright, with expressions of interest directed to admin@smbichamber.org.au

As the morning wrapped, prizes were drawn, breakfast plates cleared, and conversations continued well beyond the formal program. Which, in many ways, is exactly what the Chamber had hoped for. Not a performance. Not a panel. But a room full of people recognising each other as part of the same system. Still building, still adapting, still here.

Jun 5, 2026

4 min read

Author:

Bay Islands

WHAT MAINLANDERS GET WRONG ABOUT US

It started on the ferry, somewhere between the mainland and Karragarra island. Wedged between eskies, tradie boots, day trippers and dogs, I realised the best stories out here aren’t planned, they just happen. So I started talking. Not interviews, conversations. The kind that start with “how’s your day?” and end with someone telling you exactly why they came to the islands, or why they’ll never leave.

You’ll notice I’ve only used first names. That’s intentional.  First names keep it real, a little anonymous, and very island. Because these aren’t polished quotes. They’re ferry truths, shared somewhere between departure and arrival, where people tend to drop the filter.

They think we’re slow. Not the good kind of slow. Not the “soak it in” kind. Just….slow.

“Mate, I’ve done three jobs before most mainlanders hit snooze,” Darren says, leaning against the rail, coffee in hand, like he’s got nowhere else he needs to be, but everything’s already been done.

The mainland sees the ferry schedule like it’s a problem to solve. Out here, it’s just part of the day. Miss one and you don’t spiral, you sit, you talk, you wait it out. Life doesn’t fall apart because something ran late.

“We’re not behind, we’re just not in a hurry to prove anything,” Leanne says, arms folded, eyes fixed on the horizon.

They think we’re disconnected. No Uber Eats or McDonald’s, just patchy reception and power outages that roll in uninvited. From the outside, it looks like we’re living primitively.

“Disconnected? Try living next door to someone for ten years and not knowing their name,” Mick laughs.

Out here, connection isn’t digital, it’s practical. It’s knowing who has a generator when the lights go out, who’s got tools, who’ll show up without being asked.

They think we’re a bit unusual. And maybe from the outside, that’s fair enough. Life here doesn’t always follow a straight line. Homes are built not to impress anyone, just to fit the way people actually live. Nothing is overly polished and nothing quite matches the mainland blueprint.  But somehow, it all works exactly as it is.

That’s not chaos, that’s choice. No one’s trying to fit here, and that’s the point.

“Where else can you just decide who you are and no one questions it?” Jules says, paint still under her fingernails, like the work never really stops.

They think we’re living the dream. Sunsets, water views, bare feet. The kind of life that looks perfect on an Instagram feed.

“Holiday? Try building anything when your materials arrive ‘sometime between Tuesday and….we’ll see,’” Rob says, letting out a laugh that turns a few heads.

Nothing’s easy and nothing’s instant. You learn patience whether you like it or not. But what the mainland really gets wrong isn’t the pace, or the quirks, or the way things work out here. It’s the idea that something is missing.

Because out here, nothing is missing. It’s just not measured the same way.  Time moves sideways, conversations go longer than they should, plans fall through and something better replaces them, and people notice when you’re not around.

“It’s not for everyone, but the ones who get it don’t leave,” Kylie says, standing as the ferry begins to slow.

The engine drops back, people gather their things, conversations stop mid sentence and just like that, life continues exactly as it’s meant to.

And maybe that’s the part the mainlanders never quite get.  We’re not behind, we’re not disconnected, and we’re not a version of life that needs fixing.  We’re just living it differently. One ferry, one conversation, one island at a time.

Jun 5, 2026

3 min read

Author:

Bay Islands

NO SHOPFRONT, NO PROBLEM

I first met Natalie Parkes at a prostate cancer fundraiser on Macleay Island. Not the kind of place you expect to uncover a story about marine construction, logistics, and large scale infrastructure, but that’s exactly where the conversation led.

Alongside partner Ben King, Nat co-runs East Coast Wharf Constructions, a business operating across the east coast of Australia, the Northern Territory, Tasmania, and beyond when the right project demands it.

Most businesses start with a fixed point; an office, a street address, a defined customer base. This one starts with water. Floating infrastructure, storm damaged pontoons, and coastal assets that only become visible when they fail.

But their base sits on Russell Island. Which is where the contradiction lives. Because it looks, at first glance, like a small island operation. And it isn’t.

“We get that a lot,” Nat told me later. “People assume we’re local only, but we’re just private about what we do.”

There’s no frustration in her voice. More a quiet accuracy that comes from being consistently misfiled in other people’s mental categories.

What people don’t see is the movement behind the work. Barges become floating bases of operation. Equipment shifts between island and mainland depots. Planning is shaped by tides, not calendars. Travel follows water routes and weather windows.

Sometimes work even stops completely because dolphins are moving through the area. Other days are less predictable again; pulling plastic and hazards from the water, salvaging storm damaged vessels, helping rescue injured turtles for treatment at Sea World, or dragging stranded boaties off sand bars after a grounding. There are even moments spent pumping out houseboats that have taken on water.

Even a “typical week” doesn’t really exist. Some weeks are Brisbane River maintenance and salvage. Others involve large scale coastal construction in partnership with commercial operators. And sometimes it’s response work; flood damage, storm impact, infrastructure failure. The constant is not location, but water.

There’s a romantic version of island life; slower pace, quiet mornings, escape from the mainland. Nat and Ben’s reality is more complicated. Yes, there are glassy mornings and calm crossings. But Russell Island is not separate from the work; it is structurally part of it. The island becomes less a lifestyle statement and more a working position; practical, connected, and aligned with the nature of the work.

“We’re in the water every day anyway, and it just makes sense to be based here,” Ben said.

One of the quieter tensions in their story is visibility. The work is large scale, but recognition rarely matches its reach. There are no shopfronts, no passing traffic, no casual exposure. Instead, reputation is earned through projects, contracts, and steady delivery.

“For us, success is consistency,” Nat said. “Being called back because we keep doing the job properly.”

It’s not language that photographs easily. But it builds infrastructure that lasts.

What becomes clear is that businesses like East Coast Wharf Constructions exist in a parallel economy most people don’t register. Embedded in waterways, ferry routes, port systems, island communities. Connected not just by geography, but by function.

“It’s not just where we work, it’s who we work alongside,” Nat said.

That includes the quieter infrastructure of island life; hardware stores, servos, small trade networks that keep everything moving.

If you only look at location, you underestimate them. Island based, community connected, quietly mobile. All true, but incomplete on their own. Because underneath is a business that shifts from salvage to coastal construction to interstate infrastructure without changing its core approach - respond to water, conditions, and need.

After the fundraiser, as people drifted toward ferries and home, I kept thinking about something Nat said almost in passing; that living here changes your sense of pace. That you work with what you’ve got. That you don’t make a song and dance out of things, you just get on with it. It sounded simple at the time. But it explains a lot.

About how a business can sit quietly on Russell Island and operate across thousands of kilometres of coastline. About how something can look small from a distance and still be structurally significant. And about how the most interesting operations are often the ones you don’t immediately see.


Jun 5, 2026

4 min read

Author:

Magazine

June 2026 Magazine

June 2026 Magazine

Bay Islands

WOMEN, WORK AND THE ART OF CONNECTION

There was a particular kind of charge at the recent Women in Business Breakfast hosted by the Southern Moreton Bay Islands Chamber of Commerce. Not noise, not formality, but something far more grounded; recognition. The kind that comes when a room is full of people who have built things the hard way and are finally given space to speak it out loud.

Set against the backdrop of local displays from Jules Sound Therapy and Wellbeing, Siobhan Demeester, Sandy Beach Studio and Writers on the Water, the event felt less like a formal breakfast and more like a snapshot of the islands themselves; creative, grounded, and deeply interconnected.

The morning opened with a performance from the Bay Island Singers before emcee duties were handed to Kimberley Priest; an interior designer and leadership specialist whose career has moved through high pressure sales environments, team leadership, and what she describes as “sales success without the stress.”

But it was the lived experience on stage that anchored the event, not just the frameworks. One of the most talked about speakers was Rhondda Vanzella OAM, who brought with her decades of regional leadership experience from Tumut, where she supported community initiatives during 25 years as Mayor’s wife, while also operating a retail business and working in agriculture with her late husband. Her presence didn’t need emphasis. It carried its own weight, the kind of authority that comes from decades of quiet, consistent contribution in regional communities where everything depends on someone stepping in.

Alongside her on the panel was OJ Rushton, known locally for her work with the Bay Island Singers and nationally for youth led creative initiatives including large scale reconciliation choirs and upcoming national participation goals. Sue McGrath, Vice President of the Chamber and owner of Bucks Earthworkz was the fourth speaker, and quite literally helped build the morning from the ground up. She prepared and served breakfast alongside her daughter Danielle and Danielle’s friend Kaydence, before stepping into the panel discussion.

Together, the speakers formed a loose but compelling narrative; leadership in regional communities rarely looks like hierarchy. It looks like persistence, systems, and showing up anyway.

Chamber President, Geoff Manu said the idea behind the breakfast was simple, but intentional. He described the event as a way to genuinely recognise the role women play across island business life, but also to create something more practical than celebration alone.

“It was about bringing people together, sharing stories, and showcasing the talent that already exists here,” he said.

For Geoff, the value of events like this sits in the overlap between business and community.

“We need to keep celebrating and showcasing what and who we have here. One thing I’ve learned in business is you have to have fun, and events like this give us that space.”

He said those connections matter just as much as any formal strategy.

“They strengthen local relationships, encourage collaboration, and help keep economic activity within our own community.”

One of the strongest themes to emerge from the morning was how often leadership in small communities goes unrecognised because it doesn’t arrive with titles attached. Geoff reflected that the room itself was proof of that.

“The event highlighted just how many strong female leaders we already have,” he said.

“Leadership here looks like resilience, collaboration, and quietly getting things done for the good of the community.”

The keynote address from local Russell Island postmistress, Kylie Purtell grounded the room in familiar territory; the everyday infrastructure of island life that often goes unnoticed until it doesn’t work.

Her story, Geoff said, resonated strongly.

“It gave everyone a genuine insight into one of our leading female business operators; someone who is well known, trusted and respected across the islands. That authenticity really connected with the room.”

Beyond the speakers, the breakfast also signalled a broader intent from the Chamber under Geoff’s leadership; to be more visible, more active, and more representative of the business landscape it serves.

The current Chamber includes seven elected members, four of whom are women; something Geoff says is already shaping direction. He also noted the changing makeup of the islands themselves.

“Our islands are growing and evolving, and with that comes new people, new skills, and new opportunities. Events like this help bring the new and the old together; because what and who we have here is already something pretty special.”

The Chamber is now calling for new members as it continues to expand its events program and local engagement.

Membership enquiries are being co-ordinated by Secretary, Jody Wright, with expressions of interest directed to admin@smbichamber.org.au

As the morning wrapped, prizes were drawn, breakfast plates cleared, and conversations continued well beyond the formal program. Which, in many ways, is exactly what the Chamber had hoped for. Not a performance. Not a panel. But a room full of people recognising each other as part of the same system. Still building, still adapting, still here.

Bay Islands

WHAT MAINLANDERS GET WRONG ABOUT US

It started on the ferry, somewhere between the mainland and Karragarra island. Wedged between eskies, tradie boots, day trippers and dogs, I realised the best stories out here aren’t planned, they just happen. So I started talking. Not interviews, conversations. The kind that start with “how’s your day?” and end with someone telling you exactly why they came to the islands, or why they’ll never leave.

You’ll notice I’ve only used first names. That’s intentional.  First names keep it real, a little anonymous, and very island. Because these aren’t polished quotes. They’re ferry truths, shared somewhere between departure and arrival, where people tend to drop the filter.

They think we’re slow. Not the good kind of slow. Not the “soak it in” kind. Just….slow.

“Mate, I’ve done three jobs before most mainlanders hit snooze,” Darren says, leaning against the rail, coffee in hand, like he’s got nowhere else he needs to be, but everything’s already been done.

The mainland sees the ferry schedule like it’s a problem to solve. Out here, it’s just part of the day. Miss one and you don’t spiral, you sit, you talk, you wait it out. Life doesn’t fall apart because something ran late.

“We’re not behind, we’re just not in a hurry to prove anything,” Leanne says, arms folded, eyes fixed on the horizon.

They think we’re disconnected. No Uber Eats or McDonald’s, just patchy reception and power outages that roll in uninvited. From the outside, it looks like we’re living primitively.

“Disconnected? Try living next door to someone for ten years and not knowing their name,” Mick laughs.

Out here, connection isn’t digital, it’s practical. It’s knowing who has a generator when the lights go out, who’s got tools, who’ll show up without being asked.

They think we’re a bit unusual. And maybe from the outside, that’s fair enough. Life here doesn’t always follow a straight line. Homes are built not to impress anyone, just to fit the way people actually live. Nothing is overly polished and nothing quite matches the mainland blueprint.  But somehow, it all works exactly as it is.

That’s not chaos, that’s choice. No one’s trying to fit here, and that’s the point.

“Where else can you just decide who you are and no one questions it?” Jules says, paint still under her fingernails, like the work never really stops.

They think we’re living the dream. Sunsets, water views, bare feet. The kind of life that looks perfect on an Instagram feed.

“Holiday? Try building anything when your materials arrive ‘sometime between Tuesday and….we’ll see,’” Rob says, letting out a laugh that turns a few heads.

Nothing’s easy and nothing’s instant. You learn patience whether you like it or not. But what the mainland really gets wrong isn’t the pace, or the quirks, or the way things work out here. It’s the idea that something is missing.

Because out here, nothing is missing. It’s just not measured the same way.  Time moves sideways, conversations go longer than they should, plans fall through and something better replaces them, and people notice when you’re not around.

“It’s not for everyone, but the ones who get it don’t leave,” Kylie says, standing as the ferry begins to slow.

The engine drops back, people gather their things, conversations stop mid sentence and just like that, life continues exactly as it’s meant to.

And maybe that’s the part the mainlanders never quite get.  We’re not behind, we’re not disconnected, and we’re not a version of life that needs fixing.  We’re just living it differently. One ferry, one conversation, one island at a time.

Bay Islands

NO SHOPFRONT, NO PROBLEM

I first met Natalie Parkes at a prostate cancer fundraiser on Macleay Island. Not the kind of place you expect to uncover a story about marine construction, logistics, and large scale infrastructure, but that’s exactly where the conversation led.

Alongside partner Ben King, Nat co-runs East Coast Wharf Constructions, a business operating across the east coast of Australia, the Northern Territory, Tasmania, and beyond when the right project demands it.

Most businesses start with a fixed point; an office, a street address, a defined customer base. This one starts with water. Floating infrastructure, storm damaged pontoons, and coastal assets that only become visible when they fail.

But their base sits on Russell Island. Which is where the contradiction lives. Because it looks, at first glance, like a small island operation. And it isn’t.

“We get that a lot,” Nat told me later. “People assume we’re local only, but we’re just private about what we do.”

There’s no frustration in her voice. More a quiet accuracy that comes from being consistently misfiled in other people’s mental categories.

What people don’t see is the movement behind the work. Barges become floating bases of operation. Equipment shifts between island and mainland depots. Planning is shaped by tides, not calendars. Travel follows water routes and weather windows.

Sometimes work even stops completely because dolphins are moving through the area. Other days are less predictable again; pulling plastic and hazards from the water, salvaging storm damaged vessels, helping rescue injured turtles for treatment at Sea World, or dragging stranded boaties off sand bars after a grounding. There are even moments spent pumping out houseboats that have taken on water.

Even a “typical week” doesn’t really exist. Some weeks are Brisbane River maintenance and salvage. Others involve large scale coastal construction in partnership with commercial operators. And sometimes it’s response work; flood damage, storm impact, infrastructure failure. The constant is not location, but water.

There’s a romantic version of island life; slower pace, quiet mornings, escape from the mainland. Nat and Ben’s reality is more complicated. Yes, there are glassy mornings and calm crossings. But Russell Island is not separate from the work; it is structurally part of it. The island becomes less a lifestyle statement and more a working position; practical, connected, and aligned with the nature of the work.

“We’re in the water every day anyway, and it just makes sense to be based here,” Ben said.

One of the quieter tensions in their story is visibility. The work is large scale, but recognition rarely matches its reach. There are no shopfronts, no passing traffic, no casual exposure. Instead, reputation is earned through projects, contracts, and steady delivery.

“For us, success is consistency,” Nat said. “Being called back because we keep doing the job properly.”

It’s not language that photographs easily. But it builds infrastructure that lasts.

What becomes clear is that businesses like East Coast Wharf Constructions exist in a parallel economy most people don’t register. Embedded in waterways, ferry routes, port systems, island communities. Connected not just by geography, but by function.

“It’s not just where we work, it’s who we work alongside,” Nat said.

That includes the quieter infrastructure of island life; hardware stores, servos, small trade networks that keep everything moving.

If you only look at location, you underestimate them. Island based, community connected, quietly mobile. All true, but incomplete on their own. Because underneath is a business that shifts from salvage to coastal construction to interstate infrastructure without changing its core approach - respond to water, conditions, and need.

After the fundraiser, as people drifted toward ferries and home, I kept thinking about something Nat said almost in passing; that living here changes your sense of pace. That you work with what you’ve got. That you don’t make a song and dance out of things, you just get on with it. It sounded simple at the time. But it explains a lot.

About how a business can sit quietly on Russell Island and operate across thousands of kilometres of coastline. About how something can look small from a distance and still be structurally significant. And about how the most interesting operations are often the ones you don’t immediately see.


Arts

THE ART OF JOINING IN

Sandy Ward spent most of her working life in a room where creativity had to fit between bells.

Teaching art meant managing chaos, shaping it, sometimes trying to contain it. Cardboard cities, collaborative art games, student built worlds that occasionally made her wish she could step inside them instead of supervising from the edges.

Retirement stretched her life out in a different way. No terms, no timetables, no institutional rhythm dividing time into neat blocks. It took longer than expected to step out of that structure.

“I didn’t realise how regimented everything had been,” she says. “It takes a while to unlearn that.”

During her teaching years, more than three decades were spent at a single school in Warragul. A rare kind of continuity, where generations of students moved through her classroom while she stayed put, observing not just their art but their attention, their distractions, and what sat underneath them. She recognised it because she had been there herself.

“I was often distracted as a student and it shaped my teaching,” Sandy says. “Less about control, more about connection.”

That approach showed up in the way she built classrooms, with open ended projects where outcomes were never fully fixed. When whiteboards arrived one year, she and her students ignored them and built cardboard houses instead. Rooms became homes. Homes became streets. Streets became small worlds with fences, clotheslines, letterboxes, and one cardboard bird perched above it all. Even later, in pastoral roles and year level coordination, Sandy worked the same way; interested in what sat underneath behaviour rather than the behaviour itself.

There was a boy in her home group who barely spoke all year. She greeted him every morning, used his name, asked how he was going. Months later, he finally asked how she was.

“I was rapt,” she says. “Then he told me he didn’t really care, but thought he should be polite.”

She still calls it progress.

Outside the classroom, she was involved in union work, equal opportunity advocacy, Amnesty International, and student representation. To students, it created a slightly mythologised version of her; more radical, more outspoken than she felt she was. “It gave me something to aspire to,” she says.

Teaching became the centre of everything until it eventually ended, after a lifetime shaped by school systems, family ties to education, and long term stability in one place.

The move to Russell Island came later, suggested by her son. What began as a casual idea quickly became a decision made before all the details were fully worked out.

“I didn’t know anything about the islands,” she says. “I didn’t even know they existed.”

What she found was not isolation, but connection. Through introductions and chance meetings, she was quickly drawn into a network of local artists and informal creative groups.

From that, Canaipa Connections formed; a collective built on shared retreats, making work together, and exhibiting as a group. What began as an informal trip to Stradbroke Island became a regular rhythm of creative time away.

“We just thought, why not go somewhere, make work, and see what happens,” she says.

Those gatherings grew into exhibitions, including regular shows at RicArts, and projects involving artists from surrounding communities.

One installation sent 80 cardboard cores from carpet rolls to Townsville, each developed by different artists responding to environmental themes such as reef bleaching and cane burning. It became a shared statement built from many voices.

That collaborative mindset continues in her current practice. She is now making sculptural insect hotels and environmental works focused on south-east Queensland birdlife, alongside a submission for the Paddington Art Prize.

“I’ve always been interested in the environment,” she says. “Now I’m thinking more about what we can actually do with it.”

Her daughter Sarsha notices the same pattern running through her mother’s work.

“Listening to mum talk about her art and her teaching is really funny,” she says. “She’s always collaborated in her teaching, in group work, and now even in her own practice. She’s making insect hotels….art for the insects to collaborate in.”

It’s said jovially, but it lands neatly on something truer underneath; that Sandy Ward has never really worked alone, even when she appears to be. The classrooms, the collectives, the gardens, the birds and insects she now builds for, they all form part of the same impulse.  Not to stand outside the work. But to step into it, with whoever or whatever is already there.

Magazine

June 2026 Magazine

June 2026 Magazine

Bay Islands

WOMEN, WORK AND THE ART OF CONNECTION

There was a particular kind of charge at the recent Women in Business Breakfast hosted by the Southern Moreton Bay Islands Chamber of Commerce. Not noise, not formality, but something far more grounded; recognition. The kind that comes when a room is full of people who have built things the hard way and are finally given space to speak it out loud.

Set against the backdrop of local displays from Jules Sound Therapy and Wellbeing, Siobhan Demeester, Sandy Beach Studio and Writers on the Water, the event felt less like a formal breakfast and more like a snapshot of the islands themselves; creative, grounded, and deeply interconnected.

The morning opened with a performance from the Bay Island Singers before emcee duties were handed to Kimberley Priest; an interior designer and leadership specialist whose career has moved through high pressure sales environments, team leadership, and what she describes as “sales success without the stress.”

But it was the lived experience on stage that anchored the event, not just the frameworks. One of the most talked about speakers was Rhondda Vanzella OAM, who brought with her decades of regional leadership experience from Tumut, where she supported community initiatives during 25 years as Mayor’s wife, while also operating a retail business and working in agriculture with her late husband. Her presence didn’t need emphasis. It carried its own weight, the kind of authority that comes from decades of quiet, consistent contribution in regional communities where everything depends on someone stepping in.

Alongside her on the panel was OJ Rushton, known locally for her work with the Bay Island Singers and nationally for youth led creative initiatives including large scale reconciliation choirs and upcoming national participation goals. Sue McGrath, Vice President of the Chamber and owner of Bucks Earthworkz was the fourth speaker, and quite literally helped build the morning from the ground up. She prepared and served breakfast alongside her daughter Danielle and Danielle’s friend Kaydence, before stepping into the panel discussion.

Together, the speakers formed a loose but compelling narrative; leadership in regional communities rarely looks like hierarchy. It looks like persistence, systems, and showing up anyway.

Chamber President, Geoff Manu said the idea behind the breakfast was simple, but intentional. He described the event as a way to genuinely recognise the role women play across island business life, but also to create something more practical than celebration alone.

“It was about bringing people together, sharing stories, and showcasing the talent that already exists here,” he said.

For Geoff, the value of events like this sits in the overlap between business and community.

“We need to keep celebrating and showcasing what and who we have here. One thing I’ve learned in business is you have to have fun, and events like this give us that space.”

He said those connections matter just as much as any formal strategy.

“They strengthen local relationships, encourage collaboration, and help keep economic activity within our own community.”

One of the strongest themes to emerge from the morning was how often leadership in small communities goes unrecognised because it doesn’t arrive with titles attached. Geoff reflected that the room itself was proof of that.

“The event highlighted just how many strong female leaders we already have,” he said.

“Leadership here looks like resilience, collaboration, and quietly getting things done for the good of the community.”

The keynote address from local Russell Island postmistress, Kylie Purtell grounded the room in familiar territory; the everyday infrastructure of island life that often goes unnoticed until it doesn’t work.

Her story, Geoff said, resonated strongly.

“It gave everyone a genuine insight into one of our leading female business operators; someone who is well known, trusted and respected across the islands. That authenticity really connected with the room.”

Beyond the speakers, the breakfast also signalled a broader intent from the Chamber under Geoff’s leadership; to be more visible, more active, and more representative of the business landscape it serves.

The current Chamber includes seven elected members, four of whom are women; something Geoff says is already shaping direction. He also noted the changing makeup of the islands themselves.

“Our islands are growing and evolving, and with that comes new people, new skills, and new opportunities. Events like this help bring the new and the old together; because what and who we have here is already something pretty special.”

The Chamber is now calling for new members as it continues to expand its events program and local engagement.

Membership enquiries are being co-ordinated by Secretary, Jody Wright, with expressions of interest directed to admin@smbichamber.org.au

As the morning wrapped, prizes were drawn, breakfast plates cleared, and conversations continued well beyond the formal program. Which, in many ways, is exactly what the Chamber had hoped for. Not a performance. Not a panel. But a room full of people recognising each other as part of the same system. Still building, still adapting, still here.

Bay Islands

WHAT MAINLANDERS GET WRONG ABOUT US

It started on the ferry, somewhere between the mainland and Karragarra island. Wedged between eskies, tradie boots, day trippers and dogs, I realised the best stories out here aren’t planned, they just happen. So I started talking. Not interviews, conversations. The kind that start with “how’s your day?” and end with someone telling you exactly why they came to the islands, or why they’ll never leave.

You’ll notice I’ve only used first names. That’s intentional.  First names keep it real, a little anonymous, and very island. Because these aren’t polished quotes. They’re ferry truths, shared somewhere between departure and arrival, where people tend to drop the filter.

They think we’re slow. Not the good kind of slow. Not the “soak it in” kind. Just….slow.

“Mate, I’ve done three jobs before most mainlanders hit snooze,” Darren says, leaning against the rail, coffee in hand, like he’s got nowhere else he needs to be, but everything’s already been done.

The mainland sees the ferry schedule like it’s a problem to solve. Out here, it’s just part of the day. Miss one and you don’t spiral, you sit, you talk, you wait it out. Life doesn’t fall apart because something ran late.

“We’re not behind, we’re just not in a hurry to prove anything,” Leanne says, arms folded, eyes fixed on the horizon.

They think we’re disconnected. No Uber Eats or McDonald’s, just patchy reception and power outages that roll in uninvited. From the outside, it looks like we’re living primitively.

“Disconnected? Try living next door to someone for ten years and not knowing their name,” Mick laughs.

Out here, connection isn’t digital, it’s practical. It’s knowing who has a generator when the lights go out, who’s got tools, who’ll show up without being asked.

They think we’re a bit unusual. And maybe from the outside, that’s fair enough. Life here doesn’t always follow a straight line. Homes are built not to impress anyone, just to fit the way people actually live. Nothing is overly polished and nothing quite matches the mainland blueprint.  But somehow, it all works exactly as it is.

That’s not chaos, that’s choice. No one’s trying to fit here, and that’s the point.

“Where else can you just decide who you are and no one questions it?” Jules says, paint still under her fingernails, like the work never really stops.

They think we’re living the dream. Sunsets, water views, bare feet. The kind of life that looks perfect on an Instagram feed.

“Holiday? Try building anything when your materials arrive ‘sometime between Tuesday and….we’ll see,’” Rob says, letting out a laugh that turns a few heads.

Nothing’s easy and nothing’s instant. You learn patience whether you like it or not. But what the mainland really gets wrong isn’t the pace, or the quirks, or the way things work out here. It’s the idea that something is missing.

Because out here, nothing is missing. It’s just not measured the same way.  Time moves sideways, conversations go longer than they should, plans fall through and something better replaces them, and people notice when you’re not around.

“It’s not for everyone, but the ones who get it don’t leave,” Kylie says, standing as the ferry begins to slow.

The engine drops back, people gather their things, conversations stop mid sentence and just like that, life continues exactly as it’s meant to.

And maybe that’s the part the mainlanders never quite get.  We’re not behind, we’re not disconnected, and we’re not a version of life that needs fixing.  We’re just living it differently. One ferry, one conversation, one island at a time.

Bay Islands

NO SHOPFRONT, NO PROBLEM

I first met Natalie Parkes at a prostate cancer fundraiser on Macleay Island. Not the kind of place you expect to uncover a story about marine construction, logistics, and large scale infrastructure, but that’s exactly where the conversation led.

Alongside partner Ben King, Nat co-runs East Coast Wharf Constructions, a business operating across the east coast of Australia, the Northern Territory, Tasmania, and beyond when the right project demands it.

Most businesses start with a fixed point; an office, a street address, a defined customer base. This one starts with water. Floating infrastructure, storm damaged pontoons, and coastal assets that only become visible when they fail.

But their base sits on Russell Island. Which is where the contradiction lives. Because it looks, at first glance, like a small island operation. And it isn’t.

“We get that a lot,” Nat told me later. “People assume we’re local only, but we’re just private about what we do.”

There’s no frustration in her voice. More a quiet accuracy that comes from being consistently misfiled in other people’s mental categories.

What people don’t see is the movement behind the work. Barges become floating bases of operation. Equipment shifts between island and mainland depots. Planning is shaped by tides, not calendars. Travel follows water routes and weather windows.

Sometimes work even stops completely because dolphins are moving through the area. Other days are less predictable again; pulling plastic and hazards from the water, salvaging storm damaged vessels, helping rescue injured turtles for treatment at Sea World, or dragging stranded boaties off sand bars after a grounding. There are even moments spent pumping out houseboats that have taken on water.

Even a “typical week” doesn’t really exist. Some weeks are Brisbane River maintenance and salvage. Others involve large scale coastal construction in partnership with commercial operators. And sometimes it’s response work; flood damage, storm impact, infrastructure failure. The constant is not location, but water.

There’s a romantic version of island life; slower pace, quiet mornings, escape from the mainland. Nat and Ben’s reality is more complicated. Yes, there are glassy mornings and calm crossings. But Russell Island is not separate from the work; it is structurally part of it. The island becomes less a lifestyle statement and more a working position; practical, connected, and aligned with the nature of the work.

“We’re in the water every day anyway, and it just makes sense to be based here,” Ben said.

One of the quieter tensions in their story is visibility. The work is large scale, but recognition rarely matches its reach. There are no shopfronts, no passing traffic, no casual exposure. Instead, reputation is earned through projects, contracts, and steady delivery.

“For us, success is consistency,” Nat said. “Being called back because we keep doing the job properly.”

It’s not language that photographs easily. But it builds infrastructure that lasts.

What becomes clear is that businesses like East Coast Wharf Constructions exist in a parallel economy most people don’t register. Embedded in waterways, ferry routes, port systems, island communities. Connected not just by geography, but by function.

“It’s not just where we work, it’s who we work alongside,” Nat said.

That includes the quieter infrastructure of island life; hardware stores, servos, small trade networks that keep everything moving.

If you only look at location, you underestimate them. Island based, community connected, quietly mobile. All true, but incomplete on their own. Because underneath is a business that shifts from salvage to coastal construction to interstate infrastructure without changing its core approach - respond to water, conditions, and need.

After the fundraiser, as people drifted toward ferries and home, I kept thinking about something Nat said almost in passing; that living here changes your sense of pace. That you work with what you’ve got. That you don’t make a song and dance out of things, you just get on with it. It sounded simple at the time. But it explains a lot.

About how a business can sit quietly on Russell Island and operate across thousands of kilometres of coastline. About how something can look small from a distance and still be structurally significant. And about how the most interesting operations are often the ones you don’t immediately see.


Arts

THE ART OF JOINING IN

Sandy Ward spent most of her working life in a room where creativity had to fit between bells.

Teaching art meant managing chaos, shaping it, sometimes trying to contain it. Cardboard cities, collaborative art games, student built worlds that occasionally made her wish she could step inside them instead of supervising from the edges.

Retirement stretched her life out in a different way. No terms, no timetables, no institutional rhythm dividing time into neat blocks. It took longer than expected to step out of that structure.

“I didn’t realise how regimented everything had been,” she says. “It takes a while to unlearn that.”

During her teaching years, more than three decades were spent at a single school in Warragul. A rare kind of continuity, where generations of students moved through her classroom while she stayed put, observing not just their art but their attention, their distractions, and what sat underneath them. She recognised it because she had been there herself.

“I was often distracted as a student and it shaped my teaching,” Sandy says. “Less about control, more about connection.”

That approach showed up in the way she built classrooms, with open ended projects where outcomes were never fully fixed. When whiteboards arrived one year, she and her students ignored them and built cardboard houses instead. Rooms became homes. Homes became streets. Streets became small worlds with fences, clotheslines, letterboxes, and one cardboard bird perched above it all. Even later, in pastoral roles and year level coordination, Sandy worked the same way; interested in what sat underneath behaviour rather than the behaviour itself.

There was a boy in her home group who barely spoke all year. She greeted him every morning, used his name, asked how he was going. Months later, he finally asked how she was.

“I was rapt,” she says. “Then he told me he didn’t really care, but thought he should be polite.”

She still calls it progress.

Outside the classroom, she was involved in union work, equal opportunity advocacy, Amnesty International, and student representation. To students, it created a slightly mythologised version of her; more radical, more outspoken than she felt she was. “It gave me something to aspire to,” she says.

Teaching became the centre of everything until it eventually ended, after a lifetime shaped by school systems, family ties to education, and long term stability in one place.

The move to Russell Island came later, suggested by her son. What began as a casual idea quickly became a decision made before all the details were fully worked out.

“I didn’t know anything about the islands,” she says. “I didn’t even know they existed.”

What she found was not isolation, but connection. Through introductions and chance meetings, she was quickly drawn into a network of local artists and informal creative groups.

From that, Canaipa Connections formed; a collective built on shared retreats, making work together, and exhibiting as a group. What began as an informal trip to Stradbroke Island became a regular rhythm of creative time away.

“We just thought, why not go somewhere, make work, and see what happens,” she says.

Those gatherings grew into exhibitions, including regular shows at RicArts, and projects involving artists from surrounding communities.

One installation sent 80 cardboard cores from carpet rolls to Townsville, each developed by different artists responding to environmental themes such as reef bleaching and cane burning. It became a shared statement built from many voices.

That collaborative mindset continues in her current practice. She is now making sculptural insect hotels and environmental works focused on south-east Queensland birdlife, alongside a submission for the Paddington Art Prize.

“I’ve always been interested in the environment,” she says. “Now I’m thinking more about what we can actually do with it.”

Her daughter Sarsha notices the same pattern running through her mother’s work.

“Listening to mum talk about her art and her teaching is really funny,” she says. “She’s always collaborated in her teaching, in group work, and now even in her own practice. She’s making insect hotels….art for the insects to collaborate in.”

It’s said jovially, but it lands neatly on something truer underneath; that Sandy Ward has never really worked alone, even when she appears to be. The classrooms, the collectives, the gardens, the birds and insects she now builds for, they all form part of the same impulse.  Not to stand outside the work. But to step into it, with whoever or whatever is already there.

Bay Islands

MARGARET BROOME’S GIFT AND THE COMMUNITY IT’S CALLING FORWARD

There’s a quiet kind of magic that sits patiently in lived in lounges, in old photographs, in stories that stretch across generations. Those stories are tucked into all corners of island life. They belong to the people who built things before they were needed, who saw possibility where others saw paddocks, and who gave more than they ever asked for in return. Margaret Broome is one of those stories.

At 94, you might expect gentleness, perhaps a slowing down. What you don’t expect is the sharp and unwavering spark. Wrapped in a warm knitted jacket, a blanket draped across her knees, Margaret sits beside a coffee table that reads like a time capsule. An old radio with a history of its own. A stapled document titled “A Brief History of the Gows.” A well worn book, “A History of George Gow, the Uncrowned King of Barellan” - her grandfather. Every object within arm’s reach tells you one thing very clearly; this is a woman who comes from stories, and has spent a lifetime adding to them.

Margaret’s life stretches across science and activism, motherhood and politics, risk and resilience. She worked with CSIRO studying sunspots in the early days of radio physics. She ran for political office, more than once, determined to see women better represented in government, even when it meant going against the expectations of the time, and her own family.

She established kindergartens in communities that didn’t yet have them. Built a community centre with her own money, a decision so bold it was once mistaken for madness. She’s lived through decades of change, raised a family that now spans children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, and never quite lost her appetite for starting something new.

“I’ve always had plenty of interests,” she says. And it shows.

But perhaps the most telling thing about Margaret isn’t her resume or what she’s achieved, it’s what she’s given away.

In 2015, Margaret made a decision that would quietly shape the future of Russell Island. She donated a parcel of her land to council; not for profit, not for recognition, but to protect it. To ensure it would never become just another row of houses. Instead, it would become something far more valuable; a shared space. A park for children to play, for seniors to move, for families to gather. She had a name for it too. Peninsular Park.

“I lived in the Redlands before moving over and I bought land here because I wanted to build a mud brick house, something environmentally friendly,” Margaret says.

“My aunt and uncle had one near Griffith, all our big family celebrations were held there and it stayed with me.”

“That was close to 26 years ago now.”

When asked what has changed since then, she doesn’t hesitate.

“The population has grown enormously and when I first came, most of the roads were dirt; now they’re much improved,” she said.

“A seniors group was started at the community centre, called Young at Heart. We meet weekly for bingo, lunch and conversation. It’s important as you get older, those connections matter more than anything.”

She talks about the islands with a kind of grounded affection.

“The peace, the quiet, the friendships. There’s an understanding between people here, especially as you get older. You look out for each other.”

And like many lives built across decades, hers is marked by turns that didn’t always go to plan.

“Everything’s been a mistake,” she adds without regret.

“But I wouldn’t change anything, I’ve enjoyed the consequences of my decisions.”

The land she donated sits as a quiet extension of that instinct. A place where children will grow up without ever knowing that their playground exists because a woman once decided that community mattered more than ownership. Because more than a decade on, there’s still no promised playground, no lasting recognition, not even a sign.

Council has confirmed that the land on Oasis Drive was, at the time of its donation by Margaret, intended to be rezoned for open space and park purposes. The site, now named Canaipa Point Drive Park despite Margaret’s own wishes for its naming, sits within what Council describes as a design phase, with any future upgrades tied to the usual rhythm of capital funding and annual budget allocation. Interpretive signage, acknowledging both the site’s former life as an avocado farm and Margaret’s contribution, is also noted as part of those future works.

What was promised in principle is still waiting for delivery in practice. There is no clear timeframe attached and no visible finish line on the horizon. In reality, it comes down to budget priorities and so far, those priorities have left this site sitting quietly at the back of the queue.

So this is a call out. If you’ve got skills; wood burning, metalwork, sign writing, design; or you just want to be part of something that actually means something, this is your moment. Let’s come together as a community and create something worthy of Margaret Broome. A sign, a marker, a legacy she can feel, even if she can no longer see it.

Because while Council decides when (or if) that playground arrives, we can decide right now who we are as a community. And we can show up and make this happen! If you want to be involved, email cindy@silentriotcollective.com.au

A final note from Margaret: “Breathe deeply, and drink beer and whiskey occasionally.” At 94, it feels less like advice and more like a philosophy well tested.

And on an island full of stories, Margaret Broome’s is one that will echo not just in memory, but in the laughter of generations still to come.


Bay Islands

RUSSELL ISLAND’S TIME TRAVELLING STORYTELLER OF CHAOS

That woman is Suzsi Mandeville.

And from that moment of mild literary outrage, a writer quietly, and then not so quietly, emerged.  Well, she argues she’s not a “writer” at all.

“Creative,” she says instead. Because writers, in her world, wear scarves indoors and know what a semicolon is supposed to do.

Still, the evidence is stacking up, poetry, short stories, plays, and now three novels later, the label is looking less like a label and more like an admission.

She’s picked up a few awards along the way too, though she doesn’t appear to have let them interfere with her main priorities; painting, clay sculpture, gardening, renovation, and maintaining a respectful, long term relationship with the sea.

A good day, according to Suzsi, involves swimming or launching her little tinny out into open water, a ritual she describes less as leisure and more as “thanking the universe for not killing me today.”

Russell Island, she says, is the real muse. Not the romanticised version with sunsets and serenity, but the slightly eccentric, salt sprayed version where characters practically introduce themselves over the fence.

She’s even written a two act comedy set here. Naturally, it involves island eccentrics (names changed to protect the guilty and, more importantly, protect her). The plot? A floating airport proposed between the Southern Moreton Bay Islands to solve the plane noise problem. Because nothing says “community consultation” like launching a protest against aviation infrastructure that hasn’t been built yet.  Chaos and comedy, she assures us, is the point.

Suzsi’s writing process is less “discipline and routine” and more “possession with wifi.” She starts with an idea, then steps aside politely while the characters take over.

“I just take dictation,” she says, like it’s normal to have a committee of historical personalities arguing in your head before breakfast

One novel even featured an accidental murder of a lead character, a moment she handled by calling a friend in mild panic, only to discover said friend assumed she was referring to her husband and immediately offered help hiding the body.  That plot twist became the backbone of the book.

Her novels roam through history like they’ve been given a visitor’s pass and no supervision. Escape from the Valley of the Kings (Egypt, 1922), Escape from the King’s Company (London, 1666), and Escape from the King’s Island Prison (Tasmania, 1839). All anchored by Tiffany, a time travelling teenage goth with attitude, poor survival instincts, and a deep distrust of anything without plumbing.

Tiffany exists, Suzsi says, because of a simple observation made over a conversation with her partner, Pete.  Modern kids would not survive the past.  So, she decided to test it. Repeatedly.  On paper, with consequences.  Pete now plays the role of patient wine supplier and general witness to Suzsi’s creative chaos - a vital position in any serious artistic operation.

Suzsi cites James Clavell and Terry Pratchett as guiding lights; one for storytelling depth, the other for making serious points while making readers laugh when they probably shouldn’t.

That blend is fairly obvious in her work; history, humour, and a steady refusal to take anything too solemnly, including death, disaster, or continuity errors.

Her favourite scenes tend to involve people arguing across centuries, cultures, and injuries, including a Scotsman and a Frenchman attempting to “out wound” each other in what can only be described as historical competitive complaining.

When asked if her writing is autobiographical, she gives the only sensible answer available to anyone writing fiction while living on an island with chooks, renovation dust, and historical hallucinations.

“Mostly no, occasionally yes, sometimes the characters simply visit,” she says without irony or further explanation.

These days, Suzsi is re-editing and re-releasing her work, with more on the way. Books two and three are quietly lining up for release, while life on Russell Island continues to provide both inspiration and material, often in the same afternoon. She’s also part of Writers on Water, a group that meets monthly and is preparing a short story collection for Christmas. Presumably involving fewer floating airports. Though on Russell Island, nothing is ever entirely off the table.

You’ll find Suzsi’s stories on www.vocal.media and Amazon Kindle, just type Suzsi Mandeville into the search bar and prepare for the rabbit hole.




Bay Islands

THE ISLAND CARTOONIST WHO TURNED SUBMARINES, SCHOOLBOOKS AND SILENCE INTO STORIES

It’s a habit that’s followed him everywhere - from high school classrooms to Navy submarines - and one that, at one point, got his work banned by a senior officer for hitting a little too close to the mark.

“I still kept drawing for myself,” he says. “I think I did some of my best work then.”

That instinct to observe, reinterpret and gently disrupt has been with him from the beginning.

It started in a German language class, where a series of cartoons introduced an unlikely First World War fighter ace; Wolfgang Fritz der Grosser. Someone laughed. That was enough. The direction was set.

“I’ve cartooned for many, many years,” Sandy says, almost offhand, as though it’s something that simply runs in the background of life rather than something he chose.  And, as it turns out, it’s something that would shape far more than just his career.

As a 19 year old naval apprentice, Sandy attended a debutant ball where apprentices were paired with nurses from Auburn District Hospital; same uniforms, attendance required, all very formal.  But the night didn’t go to plan.

Robyn, then a 17 year old nurse, wasn’t his assigned partner, but she noticed him. Later, she invited Sandy and her official partner back to her sister and brother-in-law’s flat.

“I won her by drawing little pictures all night,” Sandy says, admitting he was largely unaware of her feelings at the time.

Life soon pulled them apart; Robyn to Sydney, Sandy to Melbourne; but the connection held, growing into a long distance romance.  On just their third one on one meeting, and on Robyn’s 18th birthday, he asked her to marry him.  Fifty-eight years later, they’re still side by side - proof that sometimes the smallest sketches leave the longest marks.

Over time, that same instinct that won him a wife found its way into institutions. During his Navy years, Sandy contributed cartoons to Navy News, later moving into work with the Defence Academy, illustrating everything from writing procedures to the unlikely mechanics of a full stop. Bureaucracy, routine and officialdom became fertile ground; always handled with a sharp eye and a quiet sense of humour.

“In this silly world of ours, you have to laugh - if not at ourselves, then the government is always a good subject,” he said.

These days, the setting has changed. Sandy first came to Macleay Island alongside his son, who was buying land. Like many who arrive without intending to stay, he found himself drawn in. The view did the rest.  Now living on an absolute waterfront, the pace has shifted.

“Work is calmer here,” he says. “I can take longer and put just that little bit more effort into it.”

But while the surroundings are slower, the ideas are not. His process remains instinctive; less about searching for inspiration and more about recognising it when it appears. A passing moment, a memory, a fragment of conversation. Often the idea arrives fully formed, as if it’s been waiting.

Children’s books emerged in much the same way. Encouraged by friends long before he pursued them seriously, Sandy approached the format with the same philosophy: keep it simple, keep it honest, but always leave room for something extra.

There’s often a second layer tucked quietly into the page. A visual aside. A joke sitting just behind the main story. Something for the adult reading along, sharing the moment from a different angle.

Even island life has found its way into his work, though never at the expense of the people in it. Sandy avoids caricature, wary of exaggerating features in a way that might make someone feel exposed. Instead, he leans toward something softer; fictionalised echoes of real moments, handled, as he puts it, with “humorous respect.”

One story in his upcoming work Those Good Old Island Days captures that balance. It reflects on a well known local character - unnamed, but unmistakably remembered - preserving not a punchline, but a presence.

For someone who has spent a lifetime creating, recognition isn’t the goal.

“The accolades and fame,” he says. “Things like that embarrass me.”

What matters instead is the work itself. The making of it. The quiet satisfaction of bringing something into the world.

Alongside his cartoons and books, Sandy has also explored textured artworks using embroidery cotton, building layered, three dimensional pieces that reflect the same patience now afforded by island life.

There’s also a thread of memory running through much of what he creates; a fascination with how everyday life once looked and felt. Milk carts, ice deliveries, butcher’s paper instead of plastic. Not nostalgia for its own sake, but a way of holding onto details that might otherwise slip away.

It’s the same instinct that connects him back to the books he remembers from childhood, stories like Tootle and The Taxi That Hurried, which stayed with him long after the pages were closed. If his own work does the same for someone else, that’s enough.

And if it all disappeared tomorrow?  He wouldn’t hesitate.  He’d start again.  Because for Sandy, drawing isn’t a career or a body of work to be measured. It’s simply a way of seeing; a way of finding something in the ordinary, and quietly turning it into something worth sharing.

Readers who would like to explore Sandy’s work or purchase his books can contact him directly at sandysworld@proton.me or visit www.sandysworld.com.au




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Around the Islands

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Featured Events in the area

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Arts

TURNING EVERYDAY WASTE INTO ISLAND ART

TURNING EVERYDAY WASTE INTO ISLAND ART

Every shed on the islands has one: the pile of things that were too good to throw out, but not quite useful enough to use again. Yet.

Old timber, bent wire, broken furniture, jars without lids. None of it feels like much on its own, but together it tells a story about how we live, what we value, and what we’re willing to give a second look.

Recycling here isn’t just about putting things in the right bin. It’s about what happens when people decide not to let things go to waste in the first place. It’s practical, but it’s also creative, and increasingly, it’s becoming something the community is actively shaping.

That idea sits at the heart of the Repurpose, Recycle and Reuse Art Competition and Exhibition, returning to Russell Island from 22 May to 21 June.  Organisers, Bernard Demeester and Bob Turner are inviting locals to see beyond the bin.

“We started this festival so people recognise that repurposing and reusing is exciting, and once you start, you see potential everywhere,” Bernard says.

And that potential was on full display last year. Islanders turned scrap into striking pieces; tin men garden art standing proudly in yards, woven mats and wall hangings made from salvaged materials, timber transformed into sculptures, and old windows given new life as artworks.

Now, with entries closing on 15th May, Bob is calling on the community once again to get involved; whether you’re a seasoned maker or just someone with an idea and a pile of “might be useful one day” materials.

“Getting involved in this event helps the environment, it’s good for your mind, and it brings out your creativity,” said Bob.

The event has also been strongly supported since its inception by local business owner, Dan Golin of Marleys Landscaping, a quiet but consistent backer of community initiatives.

“Events like this bring people together in a really positive way,” Dan says.

“It’s not just about the art, it’s about connection, sharing ideas, and taking pride in what we can create as a community.”

In a place where every choice has a visible impact, recycling and reusing isn’t just practical; it’s part of looking after the islands themselves.

Entries for the Repurpose, Recycle & Reuse Art Competition and Exhibition close 15th May, with the exhibition open from 22 May to 21 June.

For further information and entry details, visit www.russellislandcommunityarts.com.au




Every shed on the islands has one: the pile of things that were too good to throw out, but not quite useful enough to use again. Yet.

Old timber, bent wire, broken furniture, jars without lids. None of it feels like much on its own, but together it tells a story about how we live, what we value, and what we’re willing to give a second look.

Recycling here isn’t just about putting things in the right bin. It’s about what happens when people decide not to let things go to waste in the first place. It’s practical, but it’s also creative, and increasingly, it’s becoming something the community is actively shaping.

That idea sits at the heart of the Repurpose, Recycle and Reuse Art Competition and Exhibition, returning to Russell Island from 22 May to 21 June.  Organisers, Bernard Demeester and Bob Turner are inviting locals to see beyond the bin.

“We started this festival so people recognise that repurposing and reusing is exciting, and once you start, you see potential everywhere,” Bernard says.

And that potential was on full display last year. Islanders turned scrap into striking pieces; tin men garden art standing proudly in yards, woven mats and wall hangings made from salvaged materials, timber transformed into sculptures, and old windows given new life as artworks.

Now, with entries closing on 15th May, Bob is calling on the community once again to get involved; whether you’re a seasoned maker or just someone with an idea and a pile of “might be useful one day” materials.

“Getting involved in this event helps the environment, it’s good for your mind, and it brings out your creativity,” said Bob.

The event has also been strongly supported since its inception by local business owner, Dan Golin of Marleys Landscaping, a quiet but consistent backer of community initiatives.

“Events like this bring people together in a really positive way,” Dan says.

“It’s not just about the art, it’s about connection, sharing ideas, and taking pride in what we can create as a community.”

In a place where every choice has a visible impact, recycling and reusing isn’t just practical; it’s part of looking after the islands themselves.

Entries for the Repurpose, Recycle & Reuse Art Competition and Exhibition close 15th May, with the exhibition open from 22 May to 21 June.

For further information and entry details, visit www.russellislandcommunityarts.com.au




Every shed on the islands has one: the pile of things that were too good to throw out, but not quite useful enough to use again. Yet.

Old timber, bent wire, broken furniture, jars without lids. None of it feels like much on its own, but together it tells a story about how we live, what we value, and what we’re willing to give a second look.

Recycling here isn’t just about putting things in the right bin. It’s about what happens when people decide not to let things go to waste in the first place. It’s practical, but it’s also creative, and increasingly, it’s becoming something the community is actively shaping.

That idea sits at the heart of the Repurpose, Recycle and Reuse Art Competition and Exhibition, returning to Russell Island from 22 May to 21 June.  Organisers, Bernard Demeester and Bob Turner are inviting locals to see beyond the bin.

“We started this festival so people recognise that repurposing and reusing is exciting, and once you start, you see potential everywhere,” Bernard says.

And that potential was on full display last year. Islanders turned scrap into striking pieces; tin men garden art standing proudly in yards, woven mats and wall hangings made from salvaged materials, timber transformed into sculptures, and old windows given new life as artworks.

Now, with entries closing on 15th May, Bob is calling on the community once again to get involved; whether you’re a seasoned maker or just someone with an idea and a pile of “might be useful one day” materials.

“Getting involved in this event helps the environment, it’s good for your mind, and it brings out your creativity,” said Bob.

The event has also been strongly supported since its inception by local business owner, Dan Golin of Marleys Landscaping, a quiet but consistent backer of community initiatives.

“Events like this bring people together in a really positive way,” Dan says.

“It’s not just about the art, it’s about connection, sharing ideas, and taking pride in what we can create as a community.”

In a place where every choice has a visible impact, recycling and reusing isn’t just practical; it’s part of looking after the islands themselves.

Entries for the Repurpose, Recycle & Reuse Art Competition and Exhibition close 15th May, with the exhibition open from 22 May to 21 June.

For further information and entry details, visit www.russellislandcommunityarts.com.au




May 1, 2026

2 min read

Author:

Author:

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