The bus peels away from Sydney before dawn and the city’s glass recedes into hinterland. By midmorning the salt turns the air colder, and Port Stephens opens like a wide, blue bruise on the coast — an estuary of islands, headlands and beaches that refuse to sit still. A dolphin arc breaks the surface beside the boat, playful and precise, as if testing the rhythm of the hull; later, a koala blinks from a paperbark tree, unhurried and exacting in its appetite for leaves. The final act is a different kind of motion: an ocean of sand moving inland, the Stockton dunes, where gravity and wind collaborate in endless re-sculpting and sandboarding makes anyone look briefly like they belong in timber-framed surf culture.