The sound of the ocean fills my ears. The waves sound like fire, wind, and water all at once. Our place, TBC, Fingal Heads, is the place where I grew up. It is the cherished place of childhood memories of living with my mother, grandparents, aunties, uncles, and cousins. It was a place of beachworms, yugeri, or pipis, of fishing from the beach shore during the still of night. It is small boats bobbing on the ocean, of fishing lines disappearing into the water, of fires lit on the beach shore, and scrap pieces of tin gathered and placed on the flickering camp fires. Yugeri are placed on the campfire, and together, we wait for the yugeri to cook. All of us, our bodies energised by salt water, our skins glowing. We huddle around the fire, while the seawater bubbles from the closed lips of the yugeri shell. The muscles on both sides of the yugeri shell begin to yawn, then pop. The lips forced open by steaming ocean water. To this day, the smell of yugeri is the smell of belonging. Lying awake at night, listening to the crashing of ocean waves is like listening to infinity, of greatness beyond imagination. Of our greatness beyond imagination. In each ocean wave, as it curls and crashes, are the memories of family, people, and stories buoyed by love. In each wave, as it softly caresses the sand, are the gentleness of voices, carrying stories from shore to distant shore. When we walk on the shoreline, we walk as though we are walking on stories, guided by whispers of love that are unseen but heard. Breathe in. Feel the air filling your lungs and out. Feel the sun as she warms our bodies, connecting us in this moment. With the crashing of the waves, we know we are limitless. We know that with each step, we walk with relatives, such as the small shells, seaweed and cunjevoi turned on the sand, rolled by the incoming and receding tide. These microscopic bodies are also our kinfolk. With their minute gills and spiraling shells, we breathe the same air. When we walk on the sand, we walk softly, quietly, and in this moment of silence, we can feel the tongue of the yugeri tickle the soles of our feet. The yugeri teaches me to walk lightly in this world, so that I may hear and feel what the land is saying to me. We gather the yugeri, putting them into our buckets. We collect the seawater from the ocean in bottles, take them home, pour the seawater into the sink and place the yugeri in the salt water to purge. The yugeri spits the sand from their stomach. The purging of the sand from their stomachs will continue for hours, after which time, they will be ready to cook. In this moment of putting the yugeri into the pot filled with boiling water, I give thanks to the yugeri and acknowledge this generous offering of Country. This moment of eating yugeri is a moment of reverence, of respect for all the knowledges that our ancient lands, countries, and old people have given us. With my family, we savour this moment as we carefully pluck the plump cooked yugeri from the shell. I take the empty sugary shells and place them onto my middon in my backyard. My midden is piled high with old oyster shells, mussel shells, cockle shells, prawn shells and crab shells. My midden is also a place where stories of hunting and gatherings are kept. Each shell, now bleached by the sun, is the story of a time of gathering with my family, of our laughter on the shore as we collect yugeri. When we catch a yugeri, we hold it high above our heads with joy to show each other we have caught one. A moment more precious than gold. Breathe in deeply. It's time to return to the ocean shore. We are going to catch beach worms to use as bait for fish. We pry open the shell of the yugeri, using our thumb nail, then peel the yugeri meat from the shell, and hold it between our thumb and forefinger. Then we wave it over the sand. As the wave water retreats, we see small heads push through the sand. They are beach worms, ancient looking and millions of years old. Up close their beauty intimidates me and fills me with awe. I squat on my haunches, holding the yugeri over the sand while the worm nibbles it. I am transfixed by the beach worm, this prehistoric native being. I watched the beach worm for many moments. So enamored am I by its appearance, its existence, its purpose in this place that I call home. I fail to take its head between my fingers and pull it from the sand. Instead, in the blink of an eye, the beach worm disappears. I realise, for the beach worm and me, this place called home is one and the same. A place where we both eat yugeri, a place where purpose is carried in our blood and bodies. Our Ancestors also, are one and the same. Infinite, storied, lawed, curious, and courageous. The head of a beechworm is threaded onto the hook. My Bundjalung family have lived in this place since the beginning of memory. And my South Sea Islander families travelled here in the belly of a ship from Tanna Island nearly 200 years ago. Memories live here in many layers. Stretching back into the time of the old people, of white sand on the beach, fishing with handheld fishing reels, Aboriginal and South Sea Islander women swinging the line deftly around their heads, sending the sinker into the water. The hook, with the beach worm sinking into the depths of the sea. On the shore, in the same moment, strong black forefingers hold the line lightly between forefinger and thumb, waiting for the tug of a fish hidden beneath the water. The line becomes taught, and strong brown hands pull the line in, hand over hand. The fish on the shore, out of the water, flips itself vigorously. The fire burns brilliantly, as the charring body of the fish is carefully turned over. The cooked skin of the fish is peeled back and the white of its flesh steams. We pick the flesh of the fish carefully away from its bones with our fingers and place it in our mouths. We sit in silence as we eat. We look at the moon full in the night sky. An ancient eye that reassures all of us with its continuing presence. My auntie looks to the moon and says, the moon is holding too much water, and that tomorrow we will not go out in the boat to fish. In this moment, this delicate, sacred moment, We are a part of something majestic, infinite, yet as tender as breath. I inhale, and the salt of the sea air holds me, both from within, and without. I am home.