Journal articles on the topic 'Marine biology – Western Australia – South-West'

The reproductive biology of the tarwhine Rhabdosargus sarba has been studied in three very different environments in Western Australia, namely the lower reaches of the Swan River Estuary and marine waters at the same latitude, i.e. ≈32°S, and a large subtropical marine embayment (Shark Bay) approximately 800 km further north. A macroscopic and histological examination of the gonads demonstrated that R. sarba is typically a rudimentary hermaphrodite in Western Australian waters, i.e. the juveniles develop into either a male or female in which the ovarian and testicular zones of the gonads, respectively, are macroscopically undetectable. This contrasts with the situation in the waters off Hong Kong and South Africa where R. sarba is reported to be a protandrous hermaphrodite. Although R. sarba spawns between mid-late winter and late spring in each water body, the onset of spawning in the estuary is delayed until salinities have risen well above their winter minima. Although males and females attain sexual maturity at very similar lengths in the Swan River Estuary and Shark Bay, i.e. each L50 for first maturity lies between 170 and 177 mm total length (TL), they typically reach maturity at an earlier age in the former environment, i.e. 2 vs 3 years old. During the spawning period, only 25 and 12% of the males and females, respectively, that were caught between 180 and 260 mm TL in nearshore marine waters were mature, whereas 94 and 92% of the males and females, respectively, that were collected in this length-range over reefs, were mature. This indicates that R. sarba tends to move offshore when it has become ‘physiologically’ ready to mature. The L50s at first maturity indicate that the minimum legal length in Western Australia (230 mm TL) is appropriate for managing this species.

Understanding the large-scale migrations of marine predators can allow better representation of their population dynamics. The migration biology of dusky sharks (Carcharhinus obscurus), a cosmopolitan large marine predator with very low resilience to fishing, was quantified using a large-scale network of acoustic receivers deployed across Western Australia. Time-series plotting of individual shark detections and modified logistic modelling were used to determine the timing of acoustically tagged sharks’ seasonal migration, the proportion of the population migrating, and the size at which sharks start to migrate. Large (>200 cm fork length) dusky sharks migrated between areas closed (north) and open (south) to commercial shark fishing. There was limited evidence that smaller sharks occurred in the northern study area, whereas several larger individuals of both sexes undertook repeated north–south displacements, moving between disparate ecosystems within the Indian Ocean (21.7°S–35.4°S) and covering round-trip distances of 2000–3000 km per migratory event. For migrating individuals, the probability of occurring in the north was high in the austral winter–spring and low (males) to moderate (females) during the austral summer–autumn.

Eight species of polydorid polychaetes were found to inhabit mollusc shells from south-western Australian waters. Numerous individuals of Polydora uncinata were extracted for the first time from the shells of both land-based cultured abalone Haliotis laevigata and H. roei, as well as from natural subtidal H. roei and Chlamys australis. Shells of the oyster Saccostrea commercialis cultured in sea-based systems were infested by Boccardia knoxi which was first recorded in these waters. Polydora aura, Dipolydora giardi, D. armata, D. aciculata and Boccardia proboscidea were common among shells of various natural intertidal and subtidal molluscs. A small number of P. haswelli were extracted from their self-excavated burrows in shells of cultured oysters. Boccardia knoxi and D. aciculata were redescribed based on the newly collected materials. Polydora uncinata and B. knoxi exhibited similar larval development patterns (exolecithotrophy and adelphophagy), iteroparity and longer life span, suggesting a high reproductive potential. This study suggests that further monitoring of polydorid species is needed not only from the viewpoint of marine biology but also to survey the risk invasive species pose to commercially important molluscs in this region and worldwide.

The Abrolhos Sub-basin lies offshore in Western Australia to the west of Geraldton and has geological affinities with the northern Perth Basin and the southern Carnarvon Basin. Both of these basins contain commercial petroleum accumulations, whereas the Abrolhos Sub-basin is a frontier area which is largely unexplored. A moderate seismic coverage of the sub-basin now exists but only two wells have been drilled, both of which were dry.Four main tectono-stratigraphic sequences are recognisable above Precambrian basement:Lower Palaeozoic Pre Rift SequenceCarboniferous-Permian Synrift/Rift Sequence S Triassic-Jurassic Rift Sequence4 Cretaceous to Recent Drift Sequence.The Lower Palaeozoic is only known on the eastern basin margins where it mainly consists of Silurian fluvial and alluvial fan red beds. The Carboniferous-Permian marine and coal measure volcanogenic synrift and rift sequences are characterised by north-south, mainly east-dipping extensional faulting, followed by widespread erosion. The Triassic sequence is about 2 km thick and comprises a basal marine Kockatea Shale, overlain by the marginal marine Woodada Formation and the Lesueur Formation red bed sequence. Subsidence during the Triassic was rapid but controlled by large NNW-SSE trending, high angle west-dipping, planar normal faults with minor rotation and extension. The Jurassic is poorly known, being confined to structurally deep blocks along the Mesozoic basin axis to the south and west. A renewed phase of NNW-SSE west-dipping extensional faulting began during the Jurassic and resulted in the development of rollover anticlines. Considerable erosion and non-deposition occurred forming a regional Neocomian unconformity. The postrift or drift sequence consists of transgressive marine shelf carbonates dipping basinward without further significant structuring.The main prospect types in the sub-basin include base Triassic transgressive sandstones or top Permian sandstones sealed by the Kockatea Shale in tilted fault blocks, and Triassic-Jurassic sandstones within rollover anticlines sealed by intraformational shales or the middle Jurassic Cadda Formation. The main source rocks include the Woodada and Kockatea formations which are within the oil generative zone over much of the sub-basin. However, identification of areas with the required coincidence of source, reservoir, seal and structural timing appears elusive.

When the estuaries of south-western Australia were first flooded by the Holocene marine transgression about 7000 years before present (BP), most were enclosed by limestone barrier dunes. Coastal sand drift built bars and flood-tide deltas in the narrow entrances, but until about 3500 years BP the estuaries remained tidal-dominated systems with a diverse marine–estuarine fauna. Now the bars/deltas so obstruct the small tides that estuary water is fresh in winter and marine to hypersaline in summer; the estuaries are river-flow-dominated systems and the ecosystems are characterised by a restricted euryhaline estuarine biota. Some estuaries are still permanently open, their bars/deltas never close, and some are seasonally open, their bars open with river flow in winter and close in summer. Other estuaries are normally closed, their bars remain closed for several years and break with episodic flood flow, or are permanently closed coastal salt lakes with bars that never or rarely break: they can become grossly hypersaline and may dry up altogether. An hypothesis to explain this Holocene transformation of the estuaries attributes it principally to sedimentary processes in an environment where river flow is highly seasonal, tides are microtidal, there was a fall in sea level, and there are differences in the volume and periodicity of flow and the degree of shelter to the entrances from the prevailing south-west winds and swell.

Although phylogeographic patterns of freshwater decapods elsewhere in Australia are well documented, little is known of the phylogeography and biogeography of the endemic freshwater fauna of south-western Australia. Here, the phylogeographic structure of a freshwater crayfish, Cherax preissii Erichson, 1846, was investigated to determine contemporary and historical patterns of gene flow and to examined evolutionary and biogeographical scenarios. Allozyme and cytochrome c oxidase subunit I mitochondrial DNA data were collected from 15 populations, sampled across the known C. preissii distribution. Both markers revealed a clear distinction and separation among populations occurring in the north-western and southern portions of the distribution. Inferences of allopatric fragmentation and molecular dating attributed the divergence of the aquatic fauna of these regions to periods of Pliocene–Pleistocene aridity. Connectivity appeared to be greater within each of these regions. Evidence suggested contemporary, but not ongoing, gene flow, particularly within the southern region. This was possibly facilitated by dispersal during pluvial Pleistocene periods or drainage connectivity during episodic marine regressions. The divergence and distributions of these lineages parallels patterns seen in other freshwater crayfish of the region. More explicit investigation of these and further fine-scale phylogeographic studies may contribute to the understanding of biogeography and evolution in the south-west, and may further refine currently recognised biogeographical regions.

Characteristics of marine shellfish and other species found in a Last Interglacial (LIG) shell deposit at Point Ritchie (Moyjil) at Warrnambool in south-western Victoria have been compared to those from modern and LIG natural beach deposits, Holocene Aboriginal middens and modern Pacific Gull (Larus pacificus) middens. The research was aimed at determining whether properties such as shell speciation, size or taphonomy could identify the mechanism responsible for formation of the Moyjil deposit. Marine species found in the Moyjil deposit resemble those found in both Aboriginal and Pacific Gull middens and are non-discriminatory for the two types. Taphonomic properties such as wear and breakage pattern of opercula of the dominant species, Lunella undulata (syn. Turbo undulatus), are non-diagnostic because of post-depositional erosion and transport effects in the available specimens. The size of L. undulata opercula show clear bias toward larger individuals, in common with Aboriginal and seabird middens, when compared to natural shell deposits. Statistical analysis (ANOVA) of the size distributions shows a greater similarity of the Moyjil deposit to the two seabird middens than the two Aboriginal middens. Small individuals (operculum L. undulata as well as smaller shellfish species are absent from the seabird middens studied, but they are present in Aboriginal middens and in the Moyjil deposit. Overall, we conclude that shell properties alone are not sufficient to distinguish which predator collected the shellfish occurring in the deposit.

This paper presents a new Altivasum found off Jurien Bay, Western Australia at 60 m. This new species expands our understanding of the distribution, and in particular extends the northern range of Altivasum, in the South-west Marine Region. Altivasum pauladellaboscae n. sp. is more rhomboidal than A. hedleyi Maxwell and Dekkers, 2019, which is elongated, and has the formation of tubular spines on the shoulder of axial fold on the later whorls of the spire; these spines are not formed in A. pauladellaboscae n sp. Altivasum pauladellaboscae n sp. differs from A. profundum Dekkers and Maxwell, 2018 in having acute shoulder nodules. The South Australian, A. flindersi Verco, 1914 lacks the fibriated subsutural band found in A. pauladellaboscae n. sp. Altivasum clarksoni Maxwell and Dekkers, 2019 is geographically isolated and morphologically distinct, being more elongated and fibriated. This paper brings the number of described Altivasum species to five

Knowledge about the coastal zooplankton of the south-eastern Indian Ocean is limited, with few studies having compared assemblages across the latitudinal range of the western seaboard of Australia. The dominant oceanographic feature in this region is the Leeuwin Current, which transports warm, lower-salinity, tropical waters southward along the shelf-edge. This study examined data collected by Australia’s Integrated Marine Observing System at three coastal National Reference Stations located at 22°S 114°E, 32°S 115°E and 34°S 122°E. Spatial and temporal patterns in zooplankton abundance, composition and diversity were investigated, and differences in assemblage structure, particularly with respect to copepods, were related to oceanographic conditions. Clear dissimilarities among copepod assemblages were observed, becoming weaker in winter owing to enhanced connectivity of species driven by alongshore and cross-shelf transport in the Leeuwin Current. Both physical and biogeochemical factors were significant in structuring copepod assemblages, with seawater density, incorporating temperature and salinity, exerting the greatest influence. The results suggest that both broad-scale latitudinal gradients and mesoscale events contribute to variation in zooplankton assemblages in these waters. This study provides the first detailed comparison of zooplankton assemblages among the north-west, south-west and southern coastal waters of Western Australia, and enhances understanding of the processes influencing zooplankton distribution and structure.

Larval production and recruitment underpin the maintenance of coral populations, but these early life history stages are vulnerable to extreme variation in physical conditions. Environmental managers aim to minimise human impacts during significant periods of larval production and recruitment on reefs, but doing so requires knowledge of the modes and timing of coral reproduction. Most corals are hermaphroditic or gonochoric, with a brooding or broadcast spawning mode of reproduction. Brooding corals are a significant component of some reefs and produce larvae over consecutive months. Broadcast spawning corals are more common and display considerable variation in their patterns of spawning among reefs. Highly synchronous spawning can occur on reefs around Australia, particularly on the Great Barrier Reef. On Australia’s remote north-west coast there have been fewer studies of coral reproduction. The recent industrial expansion into these regions has facilitated research, but the associated data are often contained within confidential reports. Here we combine information in this grey-literature with that available publicly to update our knowledge of coral reproduction in WA, for tens of thousands of corals and hundreds of species from over a dozen reefs spanning 20° of latitude. We identified broad patterns in coral reproduction, but more detailed insights were hindered by biased sampling; most studies focused on species ofAcroporasampled over a few months at several reefs. Within the existing data, there was a latitudinal gradient in spawning activity among seasons, with mass spawning during autumn occurring on all reefs (but the temperate south-west). Participation in a smaller, multi-specific spawning during spring decreased from approximately one quarter of corals on the Kimberley Oceanic reefs to little participation at Ningaloo. Within these seasons, spawning was concentrated in March and/or April, and October and/or November, depending on the timing of the full moon. The timing of the full moon determined whether spawning was split over two months, which was common on tropical reefs. There were few data available for non-Acroporacorals, which may have different patterns of reproduction. For example, the massivePoritesseemed to spawn through spring to autumn on Kimberley Oceanic reefs and during summer in the Pilbara region, where other common corals (e.g.Turbinaria&Pavona) also displayed different patterns of reproduction to theAcropora. The brooding corals (Isopora&Seriatopora) on Kimberley Oceanic reefs appeared to planulate during many months, possibly with peaks from spring to autumn; a similar pattern is likely on other WA reefs. Gaps in knowledge were also due to the difficulty in identifying species and issues with methodology. We briefly discuss some of these issues and suggest an approach to quantifying variation in reproductive output throughout a year.

Heterodontus portusjacksoniwas obtained from the catches of commercial trawl, gillnet and longline fisheries operating in south-western Australian waters, in which this shark is an abundant bycatch species. Ninety per cent of theH. portusjacksonicaught by commercial trawling in a marine embayment were <400 mm in total length, whereas 99 and 100%, respectively, of the individuals taken by commercial gillnet and longline outside that embayment were >400 mm. Although the differences between the size compositions in the catches obtained by trawling vs both gillnetting and longlining, which were similar, are partly attributable to gear selectivity, they also reflect a use by juvenileH. portusjacksoniof protected nearshore waters as nursery areas and a tendency for larger juveniles and adults to occupy reef/rock habitats in a range of water depths. The fact that all but one of the numerousH. portusjacksoni>800 mm were females is reflected in the ratio of females to males differing significantly from parity in the gillnet and longline samples. Yolked oocytes usually take one year to develop to ovulatory size. Ovulation occurs in late winter to early summer and hatching takes place a year later when the embryo is 180–220 mm. The claspers of males commence rapid growth at a total length of ~450 mm, coincident with the onset of clasper calcification and gonadal maturation. The rate of clasper growth relative to total length reached a maximum at ~570 mm and then declined precipitously as the claspers approached full calcification. Based on gonadal criteria, theL50at maturity for females (805 mm) was nearly 40% greater than that for males (593 mm). Values of the deviance information criterion and marked overlap in their 95% confidence intervals demonstrate that theL50of 581 mm derived for males using full clasper calcification as the index of maturity was equally valid as the aboveL50derived for males at maturity using gonadal criteria. The capture of substantial numbers of juveniles by trawling and of females <L50at maturity by gillnetting and longlining may be having localized effects on the population structure ofH. portusjacksoniin south-western Australian waters.

This paper describes the distribution of fishes in inland waters of the Pilbara (Indian Ocean) Drainage Division of Western Australia. 48 842 fish representing 29 species (including one undescribed plotosid catfish) were recorded from 148 of the 171 sites sampled in 21 river systems throughout the Pilbara Drainage Division, i.e. from the Irwin River in the south to the DeGrey River in the north. Of these, 26 844 were from 13 native freshwater species (this total includes the catadromous Indian short-finned eel Anguilla bicolor McClelland 1844 and an undescribed plotosid catfish), 3 099 were from 12 marine/estuarine species and a further 18 899 were from four introduced species. In addition, the Pilbara Drainage Division contains two endemic cave fishes in the North West Cape (Humphreys & Adams 1991; Allen et al. 2002). The results of this study suggest that the Pilbara Drainage Division can be divided into three subprovinces, one for the westwards flowing rivers, i.e. from the Greenough to Lyndon (Southern Pilbara Subprovince), another for the northwards flowing rivers, i.e. from the Yannarie to the DeGrey (Northern Pilbara Subprovince), and a third for the subterranean waters of North West Cape (North West Cape Subprovince).

Trawl areas and intensities were mapped at coarse (22 km 1986–99)and fine (1 km 1995–99)scales, and statistics reported by area and depth stratum. Total effort in hours was relatively stable to 1992, then increased substantially to 1999. The total distance trawled from fine-scale analysis showed a similar trend for the 1995–99 period. Coarse-scale analysis from 1986–99 indicated effort increases in north-east Bass Strait in particular, and also off western Tasmania and west of Bass Strait. There was little change in the total area of the fishery from 1995 to 1999, but grid cells on the periphery showed considerable interannual variation in the presence or absence of fishing. Increased or redistributed effort tended to further concentrate in the relatively small high-effort areas, rather than increasing equally across the grounds, or spreading to new grounds. In the total management area, a small proportion of the 1 km grids was fished. However, in 200–1000 m depth strata, ≥50%of the grids were fished with some intensity. The consequences and compromises of spatial scale are discussed in terms of data quality, the use of trawl effort as a surrogate for marine disturbance, and the interpretation of catch rates.

Woodside Energy Ltd, as operator of the Browse LNG Development, recently acquired two seismic surveys at Scott Reef, Western Australia. The surveys were important steps towards acquiring full seismic coverage over the Torosa gas field, part of which underlies Scott Reef The Maxima 3D marine seismic survey, conducted in late 2007, was a conventional towed streamer survey. This was followed in May 2008 by the Gigas 2D transition zone survey in the shallow waters of north Scott Reef, and Woodside’s first experience with ocean bottom cable (OBC) seismic technology. Each survey presented unique challenges during the planning, regulatory approval and acquisition stages. Scott Reef comprises two coral atolls located on the outer continental shelf of northwest Australia, approximately 400 km north of Broome. The only permanently emergent land is a small sand cay (Sandy Islet, Fig. 1), although the reef crests of both atolls are exposed at low tide. Outside the reefs the seafloor drops away rapidly, with water depths of about 350 m to the east, increasing to more than 1,000 m to the west. South Scott Reef lagoon is open to the north, with water depths increasing to about 50 m before deepening abruptly into the channel between the two reefs. North Scott Reef lagoon is shallower—generally less than 25 m—and is connected to the ocean by two narrow channels. Semi-diurnal tides with a range of up to 4.6 m produce strong tidal currents in and near these channels. Small, steep-sided coral heads, or bombies, are common throughout the lagoons, especially in water less than 25 m deep.

Many marine species are predicted to shift their ranges poleward due to rising ocean temperatures driven by climate change. For benthic marine species with pelagic larval stages, poleward range shifts are often facilitated through pelagic larval transport via western boundary currents (WBC). By surveying pelagic larval distributions within WBCs, species advected poleward of their known distributions can be identified and monitored. Palinurid and scyllarid lobster larvae (phyllosoma) have long pelagic larval durations, providing high potential for poleward advection. We surveyed spatial distribution of phyllosoma within the western-boundary East Australian Current. Due to difficulties morphologically identifying phyllosoma, we tested the utility of molecular identification using cytochrome c oxidase I (COI). From COI sequences of 56 phyllosoma and one postlarva, 65% of sequences consisted of good-quality mitochondrial DNA. Across water types sampled, scyllarid phyllosoma exhibited relatively homogeneous distribution, whereas palinurid phyllosoma exhibited heterogeneous distribution with greatest abundance inside a warm core eddy on the south coast of eastern Australia. Two tropical and one subtropical palinurid species were detected ~75–1800km to the south or south-west of their known species distribution. Our results indicate tropical lobster species are reaching temperate regions, providing these species the opportunity to establish in temperate regions if or when environmental conditions become amenable to settlement.

Collaboration in decommissioning offshore infrastructure could save both industry and taxpayers billions of dollars and facilitate new industries and exports for Australia, especially in the Asia-Pacific region. At the end of the liquefied natural gas (LNG) plant construction boom, Australia must not miss out on this major new opportunity. The 2017 bid for Commonwealth funding to establish a Decommissioning Offshore Infrastructure Cooperative Research Centre (DOI-CRC) involved more than 30 participants and many other collaborators. High-level commitments were made by Chevron, Woodside, Shell, BHP, ExxonMobil, Quadrant, The University of Western Australia, Curtin University, the University of New South Wales, Deakin University, Australian Maritime College, CSIRO and Australian Institute of Marine Science. A Perth-based DOI-CRC was supported by National Energy Resources Australia, National Offshore Petroleum Safety and Environmental Management Authority and other Australian Government bodies and by the Western Australian Government and its Chief Scientist and agencies but did not receive sufficient support from the CRC Advisory Committee. Meeting decommissioning challenges in the North West Shelf, Bass Strait and the Northern Territory in a timely, robust, scientific, efficient and cost-effective manner that contributes to a sustainable marine environment should draw upon and augment international best practice with local capability and expertise. Good science and innovative engineering are needed to support regulatory approval of options such as ‘rigs to reefs’ and commercial opportunities such as in waste management and expanded fishing and tourism. APPEA and operators wish to maintain DOI-CRC’s momentum and learn from UK research arrangements through funding marine science projects. But we must be much broader if we are to build a sustainable world-class Australian decommissioning industry. In particular, we need to work more closely with state and federal regulators and policymakers and undertake more engineering science research and innovation.

Effective management of rocky intertidal reefs requires an understanding of spatial variation in species composition and abundance, and the identification of high biodiversity areas. This study identified patterns of invertebrate biodiversity on intertidal reefs of differing underlying structure within Ngari Capes Marine Park, south-west Western Australia. Intertidal reef surveys were conducted at 12 limestone and 9 granite sites throughout the park. Geology was a significant indicator of variation in percentage cover of substrate and invertebrate composition, which covaried with rugosity and complexity. Limestone reefs were characterised by a combination of high and low branching algae and a sand–turf matrix, whereas granite reefs consisted of bare rock. A total of 15772 individual invertebrates representing 10 phyla, 16 classes, 60 families and 121 species was recorded. A high abundance of dove (Family Columbellidae) and jewel top snails (Family Trochidae) characterised limestone reefs, whereas an assortment of limpets and chitons characterised granite reefs. Granite reefs contained more species (92v. 63) and a higher mean (±s.d.) number of individuals (119±58v. 42±79m–2) than did limestone reefs. These findings emphasise the effect of underlying geology on the distribution of intertidal invertebrates and the need for management programs to accommodate different habitat types to effectively conserve biodiversity.

Two seal species breed on the west coast of South Australia, the Australian sea lion, Neophoca cinerea, and the New Zealand fur seal, Arctocephalus forsteri. Aerial surveys were conducted at intervals of ~3 months between April 1995 and June 1997 to determine the breeding status of sea lions and timing of pupping seasons. Ground surveys between October 1994 and April 2004 aimed at counting sea lions and fur seals, particularly pups. In all, 27 sites were examined. Six new sea lion breeding colonies were documented, at Four Hummocks, Price, North Rocky, Dorothee, West Waldegrave and Nicolas Baudin Islands. All were found or confirmed by ground survey. Pup numbers were equivalent to 12% of the total number of pups estimated in surveys conducted from 1987 to 1992, but primarily in 1990. The sighting of brown pups on aerial surveys of Ward Island, Middle and Western Nuyts Reef supports earlier indications, based on dead pups, that they are breeding colonies. The timing of pupping seasons is not synchronous; estimates are presented for colonies between 1995 and early in 2004, with predictions to the end of 2005. The abundance estimates of sea lion pups highlight the importance of visiting a colony early in the pupping season to determine when pupping begins and ~5 months later when the maximum number of pups is expected. For the New Zealand fur seal, small numbers of pups were recorded at Dorothee, West Waldegrave and Nicolas Baudin Islands, and at Nuyts Reef. These and the previously unknown sea lion breeding colonies on the west coast of South Australia suggest that further colonies may remain to be documented. Because planning for aquaculture ventures is active in South Australia, it is important that the localities and status of sea lion and fur seal colonies be established unequivocally to ensure that the need for Prohibited Area status for islands with breeding colonies and for Marine Protected Areas around them is noted.

Abstract. Vintage 2-D (two dimensional) seismic reflection surveys from the sparsely explored Mentelle Basin (western Australian margin) have been re-processed and integrated with recent high quality seismic survey, and stratigraphic borehole data. Interpretation of these data sets allows the internal geometry of the Mentelle Basin fill and depositional history to be reanalysed with a greater degree of confidence. Basin stratigraphy can be subdivided into several seismically defined megasequences, separated by major unconformities related to both the Valanginian breakup between India-Madagascar and Australia-Antarctica, and tectonically-driven switches in deposition through the Albian. Resting on the Valanginian unconformity are several kilometre-scale mounded structures that formed during late Jurassic to early Cretaceous extension. These have previously been interpreted as volcanic edifices, although direct evidence of volcanic feeder systems is lacking. An alternative interpretation is that these features may be carbonate build-ups. The latter interpretation carries significant climatic ramifications, since carbonate build-ups would have formed at high palaeolatitude, ~60° S. Soon after breakup, initial subsidence resulted in a shallow marine environment and Barremian-Aptian silty-sandy mudstones were deposited. As subsidence continued, thick Albian ferruginous black clays were deposited. Internally, black clay megasequences show previously unresolved unconformities, onlapping and downlapping packages, which reflect a complex depositional, rifting and subsidence history, at odds with their previous interpretation as open marine sediments. Southwestwards migration of the Kerguelen hotspot led to thermal contraction and subsidence to the present day water depth (~3000 m). This was accompanied by Turonian-Santonian deposition of massive chalk beds, which are unconformably overlain by pelagic Palaeocene-Holocene sediments. This substantial unconformity is related to the diachronous breakup and onset of slow spreading between Australia and Antarctica, which may have led to the reactivation and inversion of basement faults, followed by rapid seafloor spreading from the middle Eocene to the present.

Orectolobus hutchinsi n. sp.. is a moderate-sized wobbegong shark found in shallow continental shelf habitats off Western Australia. It occurs from Coral Bay (near North West Cape) south to Groper Bluff (west of Bremer Bay) in depths of 9–106 m where it is caught as by-catch of local gillnet, longline, rock lobster and recreational fisheries. It is sympatric with two other commercial wobbegong species, Orectolobus maculatus and O. ornatus, but differs from these and other IndoPacific species in having the combination of a few unbranched dermal lobes, relatively tall dorsal fins, no warty tubercles on the back of adults, and dark brown corrugated saddles without white spots and blotches. Some details of its biology are also provided.

The precise type-locality of the infrequently encountered Western Australian species Nascio chydaea Olliff, 1886 is redefined from 28˚44ʹS, 116˚24ʹE to 34˚11ʹS, 118˚19ʹE, and thus George Masters is identified as the original collector and January–February 1869 as the date of collection of its lectotype and paralectotype. The first larval and adult hostplant records, Eucalyptus wandoo and an unidentified Asteraceae species respectively, as well as three further distributional records from south-west Western Australia, are provided for N. chydaea and discussed. A colour photograph of its dorsal habitus is also provided, as well as a distribution map for this species. Relationships, general zoogeography and biology of all Nascio species are briefly discussed.

As biodiversity declines globally, it is becoming increasingly important to understand the processes that create and maintain biodiverse communities. We examined whether the extraordinarily high species diversity of macroalgal communities in shallow coastal waters off south-west Western Australia is related to wave-induced physical disturbance. We used the numerical wave model SWAN to estimate the hydrodynamic forces generated by waves in bathymetrically complex coastal reefs. Oscillatory water motion at the seabed during extreme wave events was used as an index of physical disturbance in macroalgal communities. There was a significant curvilinear relationship between species diversity and disturbance index, consistent with the intermediate disturbance hypothesis (IDH). Diversity was lower at exposed offshore sites where disturbance is likely to be highest and at very sheltered sites with the least disturbance. Our results match those from some other highly diverse habitats, including rainforests, grasslands and coral reefs in which patchy, stochastic disturbance regimes have been hypothesised to prevent the development of homogeneous climax communities, promoting spatiotemporal heterogeneity and increasing total system diversity. Our results represent important evidence in support of a role for the IDH in driving diversity in marine plant communities.

Abstract Marine recreational fisheries (MRFs) are often highly spatially heterogenous, with effort concentrated into small areas, and fisheries spanning large environmental gradients. However, spatially resolved catch data is rarely collected in MRFs, preventing the study of spatial heterogeneity in catch. This study uses recreational catch reported in 10 × 10 nm blocks across eight degrees of latitude in Western Australia to map spatial predictions of the probability of a recreational catch on an average trip for two key species: West Australian dhufish (Glaucosoma hebraicum) and snapper (Chrysophrys auratus). Two spatial modelling techniques are compared for the analysis, generalized additive mixed models (GAMMs) and boosted regression trees (BRTs). We find that BRTs outperform GAMMs, but performance gains are small. We also find marked spatial variations in recreational catch probabilities: high catches of dhufish are found in the north of the study area, and low catches in the Perth Metropolitan area and in the south; snapper catches are highest in the north and low in the south. These patterns are used to identify important spatial processes in the fishery. The analysis also suggests that modelling approach (GAMMs or BRTs) has only a minor effect on outcomes of spatial catch analysis in MRFs.

The factors determining the distribution of the Western Australian endemic Solanum hoplopetalum Bitter & Summerh. (Solanaceae) were assessed because it was identified as a potential weed risk to Australian cropping regions, including under climate change scenarios. Incubation at constant temperatures determined daily plant growth rates and plants required 1380 degree-days above a threshold of 12.4°C to complete growth to flowering. From this and published information on the plant’s biology, we developed a mechanistic niche model using CLIMEX. The model projection for current climates produced a highly significant match to known distribution records. Spatially, the lower south-west and areas eastwards to South Australia, western New South Wales and southern parts of the Northern Territory were climatically suitable for growth of S. hoplopetalum. However, by 2070 the area under risk decreases, with the projected distribution under climate change contracting southwards. We hypothesise that climatic extremes and edaphic factors, possibly high soil pH, may be major factors determining the current distribution of S. hoplopetalum. Containment on the southern edge of the current distribution, interstate quarantine and local eradication in new areas of invasion are recommended as management options to combat the potential for this native weed to spread.

Early warning indicators for waterways affected by acid sulfate soils (ASS) are valuable tools for water management organisations. Oxidised ASS may discharge high concentrations of metals, acid and sulfur to surrounding water. The origin of sulfate may be determined by δ34S values. δ34S values of dissolved sulfate in ~300 samples of fresh, brackish and estuarine surface water from south-west Western Australia ranged from –6.6 to 31.4‰ (Cañon Diablo Troilite). An indicator was developed based on [SO42–], [Cl–] and δ34S that categorised samples into groups with similar isotopic influences (iso-groups). Signals of disturbed ASS were identified in ~4.5% of sites. Multivariate statistical analysis showed that water quality had deteriorated at ASS-influenced sites. Although highly variable, average aluminium concentrations were higher (up to 0.12 mg L–1, compared with <0.05 mg L–1 elsewhere) in samples that are influenced by ASS disturbance. The categorisation of samples into iso-groups provides a simple tool to prioritise sites for further investigation. This study shows that δ34S values provide an early warning indicator for water affected by disturbed ASS, particularly in localities where rainfall is marine dominated with a similar δ34S to seawater.

Little is known of the breeding behaviour of the Forest Red-tailed Black Cockatoo Calyptorhynchus banksii naso (FRTBC), a large, iconic forest cockatoo, endemic to the south-west corner of Western Australia, currently listed as Vulnerable under the State Western Australian Wildlife Conservation Act and under the Commonwealth Environment Protection and Biodiversity Conservation Act. In this paper, we provide details of breeding behaviour of FRTBC based on observations throughout the year over 17 years, together with observations of diet and feeding behaviour over the same period. FRTBC are monogamous hollow-nesters. Breeding was recorded in all months, with peaks in autumn-winter (April– June) and spring (August–October), with few records in January and February. Breeding also varied between years, with little breeding in 1999, 2001 and 2008, but many observations in 2006 and 2009. Breeding occurred at times of fruiting of either of the principal feed trees, Jarrah Eucalyptus marginata or Marri Corymbia calophylla, so it does not depend solely on one or the other of these species. Courtship displays were noted at all times of the day, from before dawn at roost sites to dusk. In total, 205 breeding events were recorded, of which 69 (93%) of 72 nests had breeding confirmed on a second visit. Use of particular nest hollows varied considerably, with some used only once and some up to seven times. Only one egg is laid, which the female incubates for 29 to 31 days, before a nestling hatches weighing between 27 and 32 g. The female remains in the hollow during incubation and only leaves for a short period in the evening to be fed by the male, usually at dusk. The chicks are brooded for up to 10 days, after which the female leaves the nest between dawn and dusk. Pairs of birds appear to recognise each other by calls, not responding to calls by others in the area. Chicks only respond when the parent is heard. Chicks are fully feathered at 48 days. Fledgling success was estimated at 60%. Juveniles remain dependent on the adults 18 months to 2 years. Thirty-seven chicks were banded between 1997 and 2011. Juvenile-immature birds moved on average less than 3 km from their natal tree and older birds were observed moving up to 19 km. This suggests that FRTBC are generally sedentary. Immature birds took up to three times as long as their parents to open Jarrah or Marri nuts and eat the seeds. In recent years there has been an interesting change in foraging behaviour of birds in the northern Darling Range (adjacent to the Perth metropolitan area) with the FRTBC discovering and using a new food source, the introduced Cape Lilac Melia azedarach, and this species is of growing importance as food in the Perth region. In combination, the data on breeding biology and diet highlight the importance of identifying recruitment rates and food availability in managing populations of FRTBC.

The Forest Red-tailed Black Cockatoo Calyptorhynchus banksii naso (FRTBC) is a large, iconic forest cockatoo, endemic to the south-west corner of Western Australia. It is currently listed as Vulnerable under the State Western Australian Wildlife Conservation Act and under the Commonwealth Environment Protection and Biodiversity Conservation Act. In this paper, we provide details of nest tree and nest hollow requirements based on details of hollows in 128 nest trees studied over 17 years. FRTBC are monogamous and pairs nest in tree hollows from 6.5–33 m above ground. Most nests are in very large and very old, mature Marri Corymbia calophylla, a long-lived endemic tree species, which is the most important nesting tree throughout the FRTBC range. Nest trees of all species had a mean circumference at breast height of 2.79 m, a mean estimated age of 222 years and a mean overall height of 20.24 m. Marri nest trees had an mean circumference at breast height of 2.76 m, a mean estimated age of 220 years (95% confidence limit 209–231 years) and an average overall height of 20.04 m. The rate of fall or loss of nest trees was high, c. 16.6% per decade. A wide range of hollow types, defined by position of the hollow in the tree, were found. Hollow aspects were also diverse. The mean height to a hollow was 14.49 m. Mean hollow depth was 1.44 m, mean floor space (the longest linear distance across the bottom of the hollow) was 33.2 cm and the mean hollow entrance area was 30 x 34 cm. FRTBC nests are typically, but not always, clustered in the landscape and social interactions within the flock are likely to play a part in the clustering of nests. Nest competitors, including feral European Honey Bee Apis mellifera, Carnaby’s Cockatoo Calyptorhynchus latirostris, Baudin’s Cockatoo C. baudinii and the Regent Parrot Polytelis anthopeplus were recorded using nest hollows once used by FRTBC. In the past Marri was harvested commercially, especially the largest and oldest trees, for timber and woodchips. In recent times the volume of Marri logs has been reduced due to a decline in markets e.g. between 2004 and 2010 a total of 95,436 m³ was harvested (K. Whitford, pers. comm.). Given the importance of large, old trees for FRTBC breeding habitat, conservation of these trees

Calytrix breviseta Lindl. subsp. breviseta is a critically endangered, obligate-seeder shrub within fire-prone kwongan of south-west Western Australia. Little is known about the species’ reproductive biology and how threatening processes, particularly altered fire regimes and exotic species invasion, will impact the long-term viability of the species. This study aims to elucidate the species’ reproductive biology and patterns of seedling recruitment during succession after fire. The effects of changes to the fire return interval and exotic species invasion on the long-term viability of the species is also described. The species exhibits abundant recruitment following fire and the application of a smoke treatment significantly improves germination, similar to many other Western Australian shrubs. However, significant inter-fire recruitment was observed up to 10 years following fire, leading to the presence of multi-aged subpopulations, although seedling recruitment was negligible >20 years after fire. The juvenile period is short at 3–4 years to first flowering. Population viability analysis (PVA) predicted that the optimal fire return interval to maintain C. breviseta subsp. breviseta was dependent on the carrying capacity (K) of the community and the number of individuals present. Carrying capacity will be related to site quality and competition from invasive species. PVA showed that if K remains high, then the optimal fire return interval is ~15–20 years, but under lower carrying capacity, (i.e. weed competition) fires decrease the likelihood of population survival.

We describe Atrimitra isolata sp. n. (Gastropoda: Mitridae), collected on the summit of seamounts (~200 m water depth) in the vicinity of Desventuradas Islands, Chile insular territory. Additionally, we provide some insight into the habitat of this new species based on underwater imagery taken with a remotely operated vehicle. A. isolata sp. n. is characterized by its small size (up to 26 mm), elongate-ovate shape, solid shell and smooth appearance. It has a base brown color, with some specimens being tan or yellow. It is morphologically related to counterparts from shallow depths on the west coast of North, Central and South America (i.e., Atrimitra idae, Atrimitra orientalis and Atrimitra semigranosa), but has no affinities with species of the family reported from around Easter Island, on the far western side of the Salas y Gómez ridge (e.g., Strigatella flavocingulata, Imbricariopsis punctata and Neocancilla takiisaoi), or with other Indo-Pacific species. The present contribution adds to the knowledge of the poorly studied fauna of the seamounts in the southern portion of the Nazca ridge and easternmost section of the Sala y Gómez ridge, an area characterized by the high degree of endemism of its benthic fauna, and now protected within the large and newly created Nazca-Desventuradas Marine Park.

Abstract This paper points out the possibilities of better exploitation of marine traffic as well as its connection with other kinds of traffic. Special attention is given to the analysis of 1,081 harbors about their availability during the year. The methods and algorithms used in GIS are buffers, cluster, method of interpolations, and network analysis. The methods used for the purpose of conducting numerical analyses are algorithms that served for the analysis of the network, its transport features, and the connectivity with harbors in terms of geospace. The main results found in this research showed that harbors have good connectivity in the first place with road traffic and after that with air and railroad traffic. According to data from 2019, all traffic lines cover 4.1 × 1015 km, and the road traffic has the most significant potential in connection with the harbors. The most connected harbors and airports are in the east coast of North America, west coast, north Europe, southern Europe, south-east Australia, a central part of Oceania, and south-east Africa. The results in the modified Likert scale between airports and harbors showed medium results. The densest road network is located in the eastern part of USA, western and central part of Europe, and east coast of China. The number of possible connected lines between main road nodes and harbors is 0.8 × 109. This type of traffic showed excellent results and connection with harbors. The number of possible connected lines per month between railroads and harbors is 1.3 × 103. This type of traffic showed low connectivity with the harbors. In the end comparison of harbors with air, road and railroad networks were established. The geographical position of harbors was analyzed, and better understanding was performed on a global scale.

Johnstone et al. (2013) (Pacific Conservation Biology 19, 122–141) make a substantial contribution to the knowledge of the forest red-tailed black cockatoo (Calyptorhynchus banksii naso) (FRTBC), presenting data on nest hollows and nest tree attributes. They discuss the threats to the current and future breeding hollows and conclude that ‘we are facing a major crisis in southern forests’. Although there are sound reasons for concern over the conservation of cockatoo species, the imminence of a crisis is not established by the data presented. We provide spatial and management context and present data relevant to discussion of threats to FRTBC hollows in south-west Western Australia. The primary strategy for providing habitat across the publicly owned forests is reservation, which formally excludes timber harvesting from more than 50% (1.3 million ha) of the forest, informally protects a further 11%, and protects habitat trees within harvested areas. Timber harvesting in these forests generally involves partial cutting, which retains trees of a wide range of size and age classes. A realistic minimum age for trees bearing hollows used by FRTBC in the jarrah (Eucalyptus marginata) forest is ~120–150 years (trees diameters of 50–60 cm), well below the 209 years highlighted by Johnstone et al. (2013). Most nest hollows occur in intermediate-sized trees. Clustering of FRTBC nest trees was not demonstrated in their data but is worthy of further investigation. Improved estimates of nest tree availability and loss would provide perspective on the threats to FRTBC, as would knowledge of population size and age structure of the FRTBC. The protection of known nest trees and control of feral competitors, where possible, would benefit FRTBC.

Two young (ages: 15 and 16 yr;; studbook # 947 and # 939, respectively) parous female gorillas were initially primed with daily oral monophasic estrogen/progesterone treatment (Ovcon 35: Bristol-Myers Squibb Co., Princeton, NJ, USA) for 3 mo to synchronize their menstrual cycles. After withdrawing treatment, urine was tested daily for occult blood (Hemastix;; Baxter Healthcare Corp., Deerfield, IL, USA). On days 3–10 following the onset of menses (Day 1), ovarian activity was stimulated with 225 IU human FSH im (Repronex;; Ferring Pharmaceuticals, New South Wales, Australia). Then on Days 6–8 this treatment was combined with 25mg GnRH antagonist im (Antagon;; Organon, West Orange, NJ, USA) to prevent premature endogenous LH release. Final oocyte maturation was stimulated 36h after the last FSH/GnRH treatment with 10,000IU hCG im (Profasi;; Serono Lab., Hingham/Rockland, MA, USA) and oocyte retrieval was performed 36h post-hCG administration in sternal recumbency (knee-chest) using a 3–6mHz probe, 17-ga needles and 87mmHg (VMAR-5000 Regulated Vacuum Pump;; Cook Veterinary Products). Both gorillas displayed a thickened endometrium, and approximately 6 (# 947) to 10 (# 939) maturing follicles (10–15mm) were detected in each animal. In female # 947, one oocyte was collected but peritoneal fluid and pathology (hydrosalpinx) were also diagnosed and the right ovary showed no follicular development. A total of 3 oocytes were recovered in highly viscous follicular fluid containing massive amounts of cumulus cells. They were transported in a HEPES-buffered transport medium in a portable incubator (CryoLogic, Mulgrave, Victoria, Australia) at 37°C by airline immediately from Brownsville to Dallas, TX, USA, and within 6-h post-retrieval were fertilized by ICSI using cryopreserved sperm collected by rectal probe electrostimulation (age: est. 40yr ; studbook # 268). The fertilized oocytes were cultured in Gardner’s Sequential Medium at 37°C in 6% CO2 all three cleaved and developed to blastocysts by 115h post-ICSI. One high-quality expanding blastocyst was transported back to Brownsville, TX, and transferred transcervically into the oocyte donor (studbook # 939), and two fair-quality blastocysts were transported overnight to Omaha, NE, and transferred into a synchronized gorilla recipient (age: 29yr; studbook # 543/91). Weekly urine samples from the two embryo transfer recipients are being tested for pregnancy diagnosis using OvuQuick test strips (Quidel, San Diego, CA, USA). Acknowledgments: This research was supported in part by the Morris Animal Foundation (Ruth Morris Keesling Animal Health Study).

The fat-tailed dunnart (Sminthopsis crassicaudata) is a small (10–20 g) native marsupial endemic to the south west of Western Australia. Currently little is known about the auditory capabilities of the dunnart, and of marsupials in general. Consequently, this study sought to investigate several electrophysiological and anatomical properties of the dunnart auditory system. Auditory brainstem responses (ABR) were recorded to brief (5 ms) tone pips at a range of frequencies (4–47.5 kHz) and intensities to determine auditory brainstem thresholds. The dunnart ABR displayed multiple distinct peaks at all test frequencies, similar to other mammalian species. ABR showed the dunnart is most sensitive to higher frequencies increasing up to 47.5 kHz. Morphological observations (Nissl stain) revealed that the auditory structures thought to contribute to the first peaks of the ABR were all distinguishable in the dunnart. Structures identified include the dorsal and ventral subdivisions of the cochlear nucleus, including a cochlear nerve root nucleus as well as several distinct nuclei in the superior olivary complex, such as the medial nucleus of the trapezoid body, lateral superior olive and medial superior olive. This study is the first to show functional and anatomical aspects of the lower part of the auditory system in the Fat-tailed dunnart.

The methods used to detect and describe morphologically cryptic species have advanced in recent years, owing to the integrative nature of molecular and morphological techniques required to elucidate them. Here we integrate recent phylogenomic work that sequenced many genes but few individuals, with new data from mtDNA and morphology from hundreds of gecko specimens of theGehyra variegatagroup from the Australian arid zone. To better understand morphological and geographical boundaries among cryptic forms, we generated new sequences from 656Gehyraindividuals, largely assigned toG. variegatagroup members over a wide area in Western Australia, with especially dense sampling in the Pilbara region, and combined them with 566Gehyrasequences from GenBank, resulting in a dataset of 1,222 specimens. Results indicated the existence of several cryptic species, from new species with diagnostic morphological characters, to cases when there were no useful characters to discriminate among genetically distinctive species. In addition, the cryptic species often showed counter-intuitive distributions, including broad sympatry among some forms and short range endemism in other cases. Two new species were on long branches in the phylogram and restricted to the northern Pilbara region: most records of the moderately sizedG. incognitasp. nov. are near the coast with isolated inland records, whereas the small-bodied saxicolineG. unguiculatasp. nov. is only known from a small area in the extreme north of the Pilbara. Three new species were on shorter branches in the phylogram and allied toG. montium. The moderately sizedG. cryptasp. nov. occurs in the western and southern Pilbara and extends south through the Murchison region; this species was distinctive genetically, but with wide overlap of characters with its sister species,G. montium. Accordingly, we provide a table of diagnostic nucleotides for this species as well as for all other species treated here. Two small-bodied species occur in isolated coastal regions:G. capensissp. nov. is restricted to the North West Cape andG. ocellatasp. nov. occurs on Barrow Island and other neighbouring islands. The latter species showed evidence of introgression with the mtDNA ofG. cryptasp. nov., possibly due to recent connectivity with the mainland owing to fluctuating sea levels. However,G. ocellatasp. nov. was more closely related toG. capensissp. nov. in the phylogenomic data and in morphology. Our study illustrates the benefits of combining phylogenomic data with extensive screens of mtDNA to identify large numbers of individuals to the correct cryptic species. This approach was able to provide sufficient samples with which to assess morphological variation. Furthermore, determination of geographic distributions of the new cryptic species should greatly assist with identification in the field, demonstrating the utility of sampling large numbers of specimens across wide areas.

The rediscovery of human remains, correspondence and other unpublished excavation archival material in the Glasgow Museums collection of Ludovic McLellan Mann prompted the reappraisal of a short archaeological investigation undertaken in April 1931 at Holm Park, near Ballantrae, Ayrshire, by a schoolboy, Eric French and his biology teacher, William Hoyland. This article offers a re-evaluation of their fieldwork which exposed two inhumation burials, named ‘Tuesday Morning’ and ‘Tuesday Afternoon’. Eight dog whelk shells remain from an overlying diffuse shell midden spread that may reflect the remnants of a dye-processing site. The skeletons and marine shells went on temporary display at Bryanston School, Dorset. The area south of Ballantrae is well known for prehistoric flint scatter sites and the finds presented the intriguing possibility that the burials might be Mesolithic in age, the excavators believing they might even be Palaeolithic. A collection of flint cores, initially associated with the archive, now appears unrelated to this excavation for it was found with a note written by a local lithic collector, William Edgar. New osteological analysis confirmed the presence of at least two adult individuals, and one bone sample returned an early medieval radiocarbon date. This evidence contributes to national understandings of early historic burial practices in unenclosed cemeteries during the transition from Iron Age pagan to Christian burial rites, important given the paucity of 1st millennium evidence in south-west Scotland. It also offers insight into an earlier account of multiple inhumation burials, found in the general vicinity in 1879, although aspects of the precise location and relationship between the two discoveries is currently unresolved. Mann’s correspondence with French’s father, a prominent Glasgow industrialist, and with Hoyland reveals the character of archaeological social networks in western Scotland during the 1930s which have been a neglected aspect of research to date. Canmore ID 60957 Canmore ID 60935 Canmore ID 275902

The Early Jurassic (Liassic) sequence crops out in numerous anticlines of the high folded zone of north and north-east Iraq and in the Rutba subzone (including Ubaid Formation) in west Iraq. The present study deals with siliciclastic / carbonate rocks of the 58 m-thick Ubaid Formation at Zor Hauran valley in south western Iraq. The formation consists of two parts; the lower part is composed of pebbly coarse sandstone and greenish to yellowish soft marl alternated with marly dolostone, while the upper part is characterized by light brown, well bedded dolostone, with stromatolite structure in some locations. Oval, light to dark brown nodules of chert are also present. A detailed field lithological description and facies analysis of the Ubaid Formation were performed for thin sections. It is composed of five main microfacies; dolomitized mudstone, dolomitized bioclastic wackstone, dolomitized pelloidal packstone, dolomitized oolitic grainstone, and bindstone, in addition to two lithofacies: marl and pebbly sandstone. These facies reflect the deposition from the environment of the lower supratidal to intertidal zone and the encompassing shallow scaffold secured shoal - marine environment with cautious water circulation.

The Black Sea estuaries represent interfaces of the sea and river environments. Microorganisms that inhabit estuarine water play an integral role in all biochemical processes that occur there and form unique ecosystems. There are many estuaries located in the Southern-Western part of Ukraine and some of them are already separated from the sea. The aim of this research was to determine the composition of microbial communities in the Khadzhibey, Dniester and Sukhyi estuaries by metagenomic 16S rDNA analysis. This study is the first complex analysis of estuarine microbiota based on isolation of total DNA from a biome that was further subjected to sequencing. DNA was extracted from water samples and sequenced on the Illumina Miseq platform using primers to the V4 variable region of the 16S rRNA gene. Computer analysis of the obtained raw sequences was done with QIIME (Quantitative Insights Into Microbial Ecology) software. As the outcome, 57970 nucleotide sequences were retrieved. Bioinformatic analysis of bacterial community in the studied samples demonstrated a high taxonomic diversity of Prokaryotes at above genus level. It was shown that majority of 16S rDNA bacterial sequences detected in the estuarine samples belonged to phyla Cyanobacteria, Proteobacteria, Bacteroidetes, Actinobacteria, Verrucomicrobia, Planctomycetes. The Khadhzibey estuary was dominated by the Proteobacteria phylum, while Dniester and Sukhyi estuaries were characterized by dominance of Cyanobacteria. The differences in bacterial populations between the Khadzhibey, Dniester and Sukhyi estuaries were demonstrated through the Beta-diversity analysis. It showed that the Khadzhibey estuary's microbial community significantly varies from the Sukhyi and Dniester estuaries. The majority of identified bacterial species is known as typical inhabitants of marine environments, however, for 2.5% of microbial population members in the studied estuaries no relatives were determined.

IntroductionTasmania hangs from the map of Australia like a drop in freefall from the substance of the mainland. Often the whole state is mislaid from Australian maps and logos (Reddit). Tasmania has, at least since federation, been considered peripheral—a region seen as isolated, a ‘problem’ economically, politically, and culturally. However, Tasmania not only cleaves to the ‘north island’ of Australia but is also subject to the gravitational pull of an even greater land mass—Antarctica. In this article, we upturn the political conventions of map-making that place both Antarctica and Tasmania in obscure positions at the base of the globe. We show how a changing global climate re-frames Antarctica and the Southern Ocean as key drivers of worldwide environmental shifts. The liquid and solid water between Tasmania and Antarctica is revealed not as a homogenous barrier, but as a dynamic and relational medium linking the Tasmanian archipelago with Antarctica. When Antarctica becomes the focus, the script is flipped: Tasmania is no longer on the edge, but core to a network of gateways into the southern land. The state’s capital of Hobart can from this perspective be understood as an “Antarctic city”, central to the geopolitics, economy, and culture of the frozen continent (Salazar et al.). Viewed from the south, we argue, Tasmania is not a problem, but an opportunity for a form of ecological, cultural, economic, and political sustainability that opens up the southern continent to science, discovery, and imagination.A Centre at the End of the Earth? Tasmania as ParadoxThe islands of Tasmania owe their existence to climate change: a period of warming at the end of the last ice age melted the vast sheets of ice covering the polar regions, causing sea levels to rise by more than one hundred metres (Tasmanian Climate Change Office 8). Eleven thousand years ago, Aboriginal people would have witnessed the rise of what is now called Bass Strait, turning what had been a peninsula into an archipelago, with the large island of Tasmania at its heart. The heterogeneous practices and narratives of Tasmanian regional identity have been shaped by the geography of these islands, and their connection to the Southern Ocean and Antarctica. Regions, understood as “centres of collective consciousness and sociospatial identities” (Paasi 241) are constantly reproduced and reimagined through place-based social practices and communications over time. As we will show, diverse and contradictory narratives of Tasmanian regionality often co-exist, interacting in complex and sometimes complementary ways. Ecocritical literary scholar C.A. Cranston considers duality to be embedded in the textual construction of Tasmania, writing “it was hell, it was heaven, it was penal, it was paradise” (29). Tasmania is multiply polarised: it is both isolated and connected; close and far away; rich in resources and poor in capital; the socially conservative birthplace of radical green politics (Hay 60). The weather, as if sensing the fine balance of these paradoxes, blows hot and cold at a moment’s notice.Tasmania has wielded extraordinary political influence at times in its history—notably during the settlement of Melbourne in 1835 (Boyce), and during protests against damming the Franklin River in the early 1980s (Mercer). However, twentieth-century historical and political narratives of Tasmania portray the Bass Strait as a barrier, isolating Tasmanians from the mainland (Harwood 61). Sir Bede Callaghan, who headed one of a long line of federal government inquiries into “the Tasmanian problem” (Harwood 106), was clear that Tasmania was a victim of its own geography:the major disability facing the people of Tasmania (although some residents may consider it an advantage) is that Tasmania is an island. Separation from the mainland adversely affects the economy of the State and the general welfare of the people in many ways. (Callaghan 3)This perspective may stem from the fact that Tasmania has maintained the lowest Gross Domestic Product per capita of all states since federation (Bureau of Infrastructure Transport and Regional Economics 9). Socially, economically, and culturally, Tasmania consistently ranks among the worst regions of Australia. Statistical comparisons with other parts of Australia reveal the population’s high unemployment, low wages, poor educational outcomes, and bad health (West 31). The state’s remoteness and isolation from the mainland states and its reliance on federal income have contributed to the whole of Tasmania, including Hobart, being classified as ‘regional’ by the Australian government, in an attempt to promote immigration and economic growth (Department of Infrastructure and Regional Development 1). Tasmania is indeed both regional and remote. However, in this article we argue that, while regionality may be cast as a disadvantage, the island’s remote location is also an asset, particularly when viewed from a far southern perspective (Image 1).Image 1: Antarctica (Orthographic Projection). Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons, Modified Shading of Tasmania and Addition of Captions by H. Nielsen.Connecting Oceans/Collapsing DistanceTasmania and Antarctica have been closely linked in the past—the future archipelago formed a land bridge between Antarctica and northern land masses until the opening of the Tasman Seaway some 32 million years ago (Barker et al.). The far south was tangible to the Indigenous people of the island in the weather blowing in from the Southern Ocean, while the southern lights, or “nuyina”, formed a visible connection (Australia’s new icebreaker vessel is named RSV Nuyina in recognition of these links). In the contemporary Australian imagination, Tasmania tends to be defined by its marine boundaries, the sea around the islands represented as flat, empty space against which to highlight the topography of its landscape and the isolation of its position (Davies et al.). A more relational geographic perspective illuminates the “power of cross-currents and connections” (Stratford et al. 273) across these seascapes. The sea country of Tasmania is multiple and heterogeneous: the rough, shallow waters of the island-scattered Bass Strait flow into the Tasman Sea, where the continental shelf descends toward an abyssal plain studded with volcanic seamounts. To the south, the Southern Ocean provides nutrient-rich upwellings that attract fish and cetacean populations. Tasmania’s coast is a dynamic, liminal space, moving and changing in response to the global currents that are driven by the shifting, calving and melting ice shelves and sheets in Antarctica.Oceans have long been a medium of connection between Tasmania and Antarctica. In the early colonial period, when the seas were the major thoroughfares of the world and inland travel was treacherous and slow, Tasmania’s connection with the Southern Ocean made it a valuable hub for exploration and exploitation of the south. Between 1642 and 1900, early European explorers were followed by British penal colonists, convicts, sealers, and whalers (Kriwoken and Williamson 93). Tasmania was well known to polar explorers, with expeditions led by Jules Dumont d’Urville, James Clark Ross, Roald Amundsen, and Douglas Mawson all transiting through the port of Hobart. Now that the city is no longer a whaling hub, growing populations of cetaceans continue to migrate past the islands on their annual journeys from the tropics, across the Sub-Antarctic Front and Antarctic circumpolar current, and into the south polar region, while southern species such as leopard seals are occasionally seen around Tasmania (Tasmania Parks and Wildlife). Although the water surrounding Tasmania and Antarctica is at times homogenised as a ‘barrier’, rendering these places isolated, the bodies of water that surround both are in fact permeable, and regularly crossed by both humans and marine species. The waters are diverse in their physical characteristics, underlying topography, sea life, and relationships, and serve to connect many different ocean regions, ecosystems, and weather patterns.Views from the Far SouthWhen considered in terms of its relative proximity to Antarctic, rather than its distance from Australia’s political and economic centres, Tasmania’s identity undergoes a significant shift. A sign at Cockle Creek, in the state’s far south, reminds visitors that they are closer to Antarctica than to Cairns, invoking a discourse of connectedness that collapses the standard ten-day ship voyage to Australia’s closest Antarctic station into a unit comparable with the routinely scheduled 5.5 hour flight to North Queensland. Hobart is the logistical hub for the Australian Antarctic Division and the French Institut Polaire Francais (IPEV), and has hosted Antarctic vessels belonging to the USA, South Korea, and Japan in recent years. From a far southern perspective, Hobart is not a regional Australian capital but a global polar hub. This alters the city’s geographic imaginary not only in a latitudinal sense—from “top down” to “bottom up”—but also a longitudinal one. Via its southward connection to Antarctica, Hobart is also connected east and west to four other recognized gateways: Cape Town in South Africa, Christchurch in New Zealand; Punta Arenas in Chile; and Ushuaia in Argentina (Image 2). The latter cities are considered small by international standards, but play an outsized role in relation to Antarctica.Image 2: H. Nielsen with a Sign Announcing Distances between Antarctic ‘Gateway’ Cities and Antarctica, Ushuaia, Argentina, 2018. Image Credit: Nicki D'Souza.These five cities form what might be called—to adapt geographer Klaus Dodds’ term—a ‘Southern Rim’ around the South Polar region (Dodds Geopolitics). They exist in ambiguous relationship to each other. Although the five cities signed a Statement of Intent in 2009 committing them to collaboration, they continue to compete vigorously for northern hemisphere traffic and the brand identity of the most prominent global gateway. A state government brochure spruiks Hobart, for example, as the “perfect Antarctic Gateway” emphasising its uniqueness and “natural advantages” in this regard (Tasmanian Government, 2016). In practice, the cities are automatically differentiated by their geographic position with respect to Antarctica. Although the ‘ice continent’ is often conceived as one entity, it too has regions, in both scientific and geographical senses (Terauds and Lee; Antonello). Hobart provides access to parts of East Antarctica, where the Australian, French, Japanese, and Chinese programs (among others) have bases; Cape Town is a useful access point for Europeans going to Dronning Maud Land; Christchurch is closest to the Ross Sea region, site of the largest US base; and Punta Arenas and Ushuaia neighbour the Antarctic Peninsula, home to numerous bases as well as a thriving tourist industry.The Antarctic sector is important to the Tasmanian economy, contributing $186 million (AUD) in 2017/18 (Wells; Gutwein; Tasmanian Polar Network). Unsurprisingly, Tasmania’s gateway brand has been actively promoted, with the 2016 Australian Antarctic Strategy and 20 Year Action Plan foregrounding the need to “Build Tasmania’s status as the premier East Antarctic Gateway for science and operations” and the state government releasing a “Tasmanian Antarctic Gateway Strategy” in 2017. The Chinese Antarctic program has been a particular focus: a Memorandum of Understanding focussed on Australia and China’s Antarctic relations includes a “commitment to utilise Australia, including Tasmania, as an Antarctic ‘gateway’.” (Australian Antarctic Division). These efforts towards a closer relationship with China have more recently come under attack as part of a questioning of China’s interests in the region (without, it should be noted, a concomitant questioning of Australia’s own considerable interests) (Baker 9). In these exchanges, a global power and a state of Australia generally classed as regional and peripheral are brought into direct contact via the even more remote Antarctic region. This connection was particularly visible when Chinese President Xi Jinping travelled to Hobart in 2014, in a visit described as both “strategic” and “incongruous” (Burden). There can be differences in how this relationship is narrated to domestic and international audiences, with issues of sovereignty and international cooperation variously foregrounded, laying the ground for what Dodds terms “awkward Antarctic nationalism” (1).Territory and ConnectionsThe awkwardness comes to a head in Tasmania, where domestic and international views of connections with the far south collide. Australia claims sovereignty over almost 6 million km2 of the Antarctic continent—a claim that in area is “roughly the size of mainland Australia minus Queensland” (Bergin). This geopolitical context elevates the importance of a regional part of Australia: the claims to Antarctic territory (which are recognised only by four other claimant nations) are performed not only in Antarctic localities, where they are made visible “with paraphernalia such as maps, flags, and plaques” (Salazar 55), but also in Tasmania, particularly in Hobart and surrounds. A replica of Mawson’s Huts in central Hobart makes Australia’s historic territorial interests in Antarctica visible an urban setting, foregrounding the figure of Douglas Mawson, the well-known Australian scientist and explorer who led the expeditions that proclaimed Australia’s sovereignty in the region of the continent roughly to its south (Leane et al.). Tasmania is caught in a balancing act, as it fosters international Antarctic connections (such hosting vessels from other national programs), while also playing a key role in administering what is domestically referred to as the Australian Antarctic Territory. The rhetoric of protection can offer common ground: island studies scholar Godfrey Baldacchino notes that as island narratives have moved “away from the perspective of the ‘explorer-discoverer-colonist’” they have been replaced by “the perspective of the ‘custodian-steward-environmentalist’” (49), but reminds readers that a colonising disposition still lurks beneath the surface. It must be remembered that terms such as “stewardship” and “leadership” can undertake sovereignty labour (Dodds “Awkward”), and that Tasmania’s Antarctic connections can be mobilised for a range of purposes. When Environment Minister Greg Hunt proclaimed at a press conference that: “Hobart is the gateway to the Antarctic for the future” (26 Apr. 2016), the remark had meaning within discourses of both sovereignty and economics. Tasmania’s capital was leveraged as a way to position Australia as a leader in the Antarctic arena.From ‘Gateway’ to ‘Antarctic City’While discussion of Antarctic ‘Gateway’ Cities often focuses on the economic and logistical benefit of their Antarctic connections, Hobart’s “gateway” identity, like those of its counterparts, stretches well beyond this, encompassing geological, climatic, historical, political, cultural and scientific links. Even the southerly wind, according to cartoonist Jon Kudelka, “has penguins in it” (Image 3). Hobart residents feel a high level of connection to Antarctica. In 2018, a survey of 300 randomly selected residents of Greater Hobart was conducted under the umbrella of the “Antarctic Cities” Australian Research Council Linkage Project led by Assoc. Prof. Juan Francisco Salazar (and involving all three present authors). Fourteen percent of respondents reported having been involved in an economic activity related to Antarctica, and 36% had attended a cultural event about Antarctica. Connections between the southern continent and Hobart were recognised as important: 71.9% agreed that “people in my city can influence the cultural meanings that shape our relationship to Antarctica”, while 90% agreed or strongly agreed that Hobart should play a significant role as a custodian of Antarctica’s future, and 88.4% agreed or strongly agreed that: “How we treat Antarctica is a test of our approach to ecological sustainability.” Image 3: “The Southerly” Demonstrates How Weather Connects Hobart and Antarctica. Image Credit: Jon Kudelka, Reproduced with Permission.Hobart, like the other gateways, activates these connections in its conscious place-branding. The city is particularly strong as a centre of Antarctic research: signs at the cruise-ship terminal on the waterfront claim that “There are more Antarctic scientists based in Hobart […] than at any other one place on earth, making Hobart a globally significant contributor to our understanding of Antarctica and the Southern Ocean.” Researchers are based at the Institute for Marine and Antarctic Studies (IMAS), the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation (CSIRO), and the Australian Antarctic Division (AAD), with several working between institutions. Many Antarctic researchers located elsewhere in the world also have a connection with the place through affiliations and collaborations, leading journalist Jo Chandler to assert that “the breadth and depth of Hobart’s knowledge of ice, water, and the life forms they nurture […] is arguably unrivalled anywhere in the world” (86).Hobart also plays a significant role in Antarctica’s governance, as the site of the secretariats for the Commission for the Conservation of Antarctic Marine Living Resources (CCAMLR) and the Agreement on the Conservation of Albatrosses and Petrels (ACAP), and as host of the Antarctic Consultative Treaty Meetings on more than one occasion (1986, 2012). The cultural domain is active, with Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery (TMAG) featuring a permanent exhibit, “Islands to Ice”, emphasising the ocean as connecting the two places; the Mawson’s Huts Replica Museum aiming (among other things) to “highlight Hobart as the gateway to the Antarctic continent for the Asia Pacific region”; and a biennial Australian Antarctic Festival drawing over twenty thousand visitors, about a sixth of them from interstate or overseas (Hingley). Antarctic links are evident in the city’s natural and built environment: the dolerite columns of Mt Wellington, the statue of the Tasmanian Antarctic explorer Louis Bernacchi on the waterfront, and the wharfs that regularly accommodate icebreakers such as the Aurora Australis and the Astrolabe. Antarctica is figured as a southern neighbour; as historian Tom Griffiths puts it, Tasmanians “grow up with Antarctica breathing down their necks” (5). As an Antarctic City, Hobart mediates access to Antarctica both physically and in the cultural imaginary.Perhaps in recognition of the diverse ways in which a region or a city might be connected to Antarctica, researchers have recently been suggesting critical approaches to the ‘gateway’ label. C. Michael Hall points to a fuzziness in the way the term is applied, noting that it has drifted from its initial definition (drawn from economic geography) as denoting an access and supply point to a hinterland that produces a certain level of economic benefits. While Hall looks to keep the term robustly defined to avoid empty “local boosterism” (272–73), Gabriela Roldan aims to move the concept “beyond its function as an entry and exit door”, arguing that, among other things, the local community should be actively engaged in the Antarctic region (57). Leane, examining the representation of Hobart as a gateway in historical travel texts, concurs that “ingress and egress” are insufficient descriptors of Tasmania’s relationship with Antarctica, suggesting that at least discursively the island is positioned as “part of an Antarctic rim, itself sharing qualities of the polar region” (45). The ARC Linkage Project described above, supported by the Hobart City Council, the State Government and the University of Tasmania, as well as other national and international partners, aims to foster the idea of the Hobart and its counterparts as ‘Antarctic cities’ whose citizens act as custodians for the South Polar region, with a genuine concern for and investment in its future.Near and Far: Local Perspectives A changing climate may once again herald a shift in the identity of the Tasmanian islands. Recognition of the central role of Antarctica in regulating the global climate has generated scientific and political re-evaluation of the region. Antarctica is not only the planet’s largest heat sink but is the engine of global water currents and wind patterns that drive weather patterns and biodiversity across the world (Convey et al. 543). For example, Tas van Ommen’s research into Antarctic glaciology shows the tangible connection between increased snowfall in coastal East Antarctica and patterns of drought southwest Western Australia (van Ommen and Morgan). Hobart has become a global centre of marine and Antarctic science, bringing investment and development to the city. As the global climate heats up, Tasmania—thanks to its low latitude and southerly weather patterns—is one of the few regions in Australia likely to remain temperate. This is already leading to migration from the mainland that is impacting house prices and rental availability (Johnston; Landers 1). The region’s future is therefore closely entangled with its proximity to the far south. Salazar writes that “we cannot continue to think of Antarctica as the end of the Earth” (67). Shifting Antarctica into focus also brings Tasmania in from the margins. As an Antarctic city, Hobart assumes a privileged positioned on the global stage. This allows the city to present itself as central to international research efforts—in contrast to domestic views of the place as a small regional capital. The city inhabits dual identities; it is both on the periphery of Australian concerns and at the centre of Antarctic activity. Tasmania, then, is not in freefall, but rather at the forefront of a push to recognise Antarctica as entangled with its neighbours to the north.AcknowledgementsThis work was supported by the Australian Research Council under LP160100210.ReferencesAntonello, Alessandro. “Finding Place in Antarctica.” Antarctica and the Humanities. Eds. Peder Roberts, Lize-Marie van der Watt, and Adrian Howkins. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016. 181–204.Australian Government. 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Introduction The aim of this paper is to examine whether recent catastrophic tsunamis have driven a cultural shift in the awareness of Australians to the danger associated with this natural hazard and whether the media have contributed to the emergence of “tsunami” as a new Australian catastrophe. Prior to the devastating 2004 Indian Ocean Tsunami disaster (2004 IOT), tsunamis as a type of hazard capable of generating widespread catastrophe were not well known by the general public and had barely registered within the wider scientific community. As a university based lecturer who specialises in natural disasters, I always started my public talks or student lectures with an attempt at a detailed description of what a tsunami is. With little high quality visual and media imagery to use, this was not easy. The Australian geologist Ted Bryant was right when he named his 2001 book Tsunami: The Underrated Hazard. That changed on 26 December 2004 when the third largest earthquake ever recorded occurred northwest of Sumatra, Indonesia, triggering the most catastrophic tsunami ever experienced. The 2004 IOT claimed at least 220,000 lives—probably more—injured tens of thousands, destroyed widespread coastal infrastructure and left millions homeless. Beyond the catastrophic impacts, this tsunami was conspicuous because, for the first time, such a devastating tsunami was widely captured on video and other forms of moving and still imagery. This occurred for two reasons. Firstly, the tsunami took place during daylight hours in good weather conditions—factors conducive to capturing high quality visual images. Secondly, many people—both local residents and westerners who were on beachside holidays and at the coast at multiple locations impacted by the tsunami—were able to capture images of the tsunami on their cameras, videos, and smart phones. The extensive media coverage—including horrifying television, video, and still imagery that raced around the globe in the hours and days after the tsunami, filling our television screens, homes, and lives regardless of where we lived—had a dramatic effect. This single event drove a quantum shift in the wider cultural awareness of this type of catastrophe and acted as a catalyst for improved individual and societal understanding of the nature and effects of disaster landscapes. Since this event, there have been several notable tsunamis, including the March 2011 Japan catastrophe. Once again, this event occurred during daylight hours and was widely captured by multiple forms of media. These events have resulted in a cascade of media coverage across television, radio, movie, and documentary channels, in the print media, online, and in the popular press and on social media—very little of which was available prior to 2004. Much of this has been documentary and informative in style, but there have also been numerous television dramas and movies. For example, an episode of the popular American television series CSI Miami entitled Crime Wave (Season 3, Episode 7) featured a tsunami, triggered by a volcanic eruption in the Atlantic and impacting Miami, as the backdrop to a standard crime-filled episode ("CSI," IMDb; Wikipedia). In 2010, Warner Bros Studios released the supernatural drama fantasy film Hereafter directed by Clint Eastwood. In the movie, a television journalist survives a near-death experience during the 2004 IOT in what might be the most dramatic, and probably accurate, cinematic portrayal of a tsunami ("Hereafter," IMDb; Wikipedia). Thus, these creative and entertaining forms of media, influenced by the catastrophic nature of tsunamis, are impetuses for creativity that also contribute to a transformation of cultural knowledge of catastrophe. The transformative potential of creative media, together with national and intergovernmental disaster risk reduction activity such as community education, awareness campaigns, community evacuation planning and drills, may be indirectly inferred from rapid and positive community behavioural responses. By this I mean many people in coastal communities who experience strong earthquakes are starting a process of self-evacuation, even if regional tsunami warning centres have not issued an alert or warning. For example, when people in coastal locations in Samoa felt a large earthquake on 29 September 2009, many self-evacuated to higher ground or sought information and instruction from relevant authorities because they expected a tsunami to occur. When interviewed, survivors stated that the memory of television and media coverage of the 2004 IOT acted as a catalyst for their affirmative behavioural response (Dominey-Howes and Thaman 1). Thus, individual and community cultural understandings of the nature and effects of tsunami catastrophes are incredibly important for shaping resilience and reducing vulnerability. However, this cultural shift is not playing out evenly.Are Australia and Its People at Risk from Tsunamis?Prior to the 2004 IOT, there was little discussion about, research in to, or awareness about tsunamis and Australia. Ted Bryant from the University of Wollongong had controversially proposed that Australia had been affected by tsunamis much bigger than the 2004 IOT six to eight times during the last 10,000 years and that it was only a matter of when, not if, such an event repeated itself (Bryant, "Second Edition"). Whilst his claims had received some media attention, his ideas did not achieve widespread scientific, cultural, or community acceptance. Not-with-standing this, Australia has been affected by more than 60 small tsunamis since European colonisation (Dominey-Howes 239). Indeed, the 2004 IOT and 2006 Java tsunami caused significant flooding of parts of the Northern Territory and Western Australia (Prendergast and Brown 69). However, the affected areas were sparsely populated and experienced very little in the way of damage or loss. Thus they did not cross any sort of critical threshold of “catastrophe” and failed to achieve meaningful community consciousness—they were not agents of cultural transformation.Regardless of the risk faced by Australia’s coastline, Australians travel to, and holiday in, places that experience tsunamis. In fact, 26 Australians were killed during the 2004 IOT (DFAT) and five were killed by the September 2009 South Pacific tsunami (Caldwell et al. 26). What Role Do the Media Play in Preparing for and Responding to Catastrophe?Regardless of the type of hazard/disaster/catastrophe, the key functions the media play include (but are not limited to): pre-event community education, awareness raising, and planning and preparations; during-event preparation and action, including status updates, evacuation warnings and notices, and recommendations for affirmative behaviours; and post-event responses and recovery actions to follow, including where to gain aid and support. Further, the media also play a role in providing a forum for debate and post-event analysis and reflection, as a mechanism to hold decision makers to account. From time to time, the media also provide a platform for examining who, if anyone, might be to blame for losses sustained during catastrophes and can act as a powerful conduit for driving socio-cultural, behavioural, and policy change. Many of these functions are elegantly described and a series of best practices outlined by The Caribbean Disaster Emergency Management Agency in a tsunami specific publication freely available online (CDEMA 1). What Has Been the Media Coverage in Australia about Tsunamis and Their Effects on Australians?A manifest contents analysis of media material covering tsunamis over the last decade using the framework of Cox et al. reveals that coverage falls into distinctive and repetitive forms or themes. After tsunamis, I have collected articles (more than 130 to date) published in key Australian national broadsheets (e.g., The Australian and Sydney Morning Herald) and tabloid (e.g., The Telegraph) newspapers and have watched on television and monitored on social media, such as YouTube and Facebook, the types of coverage given to tsunamis either affecting Australia, or Australians domestically and overseas. In all cases, I continued to monitor and collect these stories and accounts for a fixed period of four weeks after each event, commencing on the day of the tsunami. The themes raised in the coverage include: the nature of the event. For example, where, when, why did it occur, how big was it, and what were the effects; what emergency response and recovery actions are being undertaken by the emergency services and how these are being provided; exploration of how the event was made worse or better by poor/good planning and prior knowledge, action or inaction, confusion and misunderstanding; the attribution of blame and responsibility; the good news story—often the discovery and rescue of an “iconic victim/survivor”—usually a child days to weeks later; and follow-up reporting weeks to months later and on anniversaries. This coverage generally focuses on how things are improving and is often juxtaposed with the ongoing suffering of victims. I select the word “victims” purposefully for the media frequently prefer this over the more affirmative “survivor.”The media seldom carry reports of “behind the scenes” disaster preparatory work such as community education programs, the development and installation of warning and monitoring systems, and ongoing training and policy work by response agencies and governments since such stories tend to be less glamorous in terms of the disaster gore factor and less newsworthy (Cox et al. 469; Miles and Morse 365; Ploughman 308).With regard to Australians specifically, the manifest contents analysis reveals that coverage can be described as follows. First, it focuses on those Australians killed and injured. Such coverage provides elements of a biography of the victims, telling their stories, personalising these individuals so we build empathy for their suffering and the suffering of their families. The Australian victims are not unknown strangers—they are named and pictures of their smiling faces are printed or broadcast. Second, the media describe and catalogue the loss and ongoing suffering of the victims (survivors). Third, the media use phrases to describe Australians such as “innocent victims in the wrong place at the wrong time.” This narrative establishes the sense that these “innocents” have been somehow wronged and transgressed and that suffering should not be experienced by them. The fourth theme addresses the difficulties Australians have in accessing Consular support and in acquiring replacement passports in order to return home. It usually goes on to describe how they have difficulty in gaining access to accommodation, clothing, food, and water and any necessary medicines and the challenges associated with booking travel home and the complexities of communicating with family and friends. The last theme focuses on how Australians were often (usually?) not given relevant safety information by “responsible people” or “those in the know” in the place where they were at the time of the tsunami. This establishes a sense that Australians were left out and not considered by the relevant authorities. This narrative pays little attention to the wide scale impact upon and suffering of resident local populations who lack the capacity to escape the landscape of catastrophe.How Does Australian Media Coverage of (Tsunami) Catastrophe Compare with Elsewhere?A review of the available literature suggests media coverage of catastrophes involving domestic citizens is similar globally. For example, Olofsson (557) in an analysis of newspaper articles in Sweden about the 2004 IOT showed that the tsunami was framed as a Swedish disaster heavily focused on Sweden, Swedish victims, and Thailand, and that there was a division between “us” (Swedes) and “them” (others or non-Swedes). Olofsson (557) described two types of “us” and “them.” At the international level Sweden, i.e. “us,” was glorified and contrasted with “inferior” countries such as Thailand, “them.” Olofsson (557) concluded that mediated frames of catastrophe are influenced by stereotypes and nationalistic values.Such nationalistic approaches preface one type of suffering in catastrophe over others and delegitimises the experiences of some survivors. Thus, catastrophes are not evenly experienced. Importantly, Olofsson although not explicitly using the term, explains that the underlying reason for this construction of “them” and “us” is a form of imperialism and colonialism. Sharp refers to “historically rooted power hierarchies between countries and regions of the world” (304)—this is especially so of western news media reporting on catastrophes within and affecting “other” (non-western) countries. Sharp goes much further in relation to western representations and imaginations of the “war on terror” (arguably a global catastrophe) by explicitly noting the near universal western-centric dominance of this representation and the construction of the “west” as good and all “non-west” as not (299). Like it or not, the western media, including elements of the mainstream Australian media, adhere to this imperialistic representation. Studies of tsunami and other catastrophes drawing upon different types of media (still images, video, film, camera, and social media such as Facebook, Twitter, and the like) and from different national settings have explored the multiple functions of media. These functions include: providing information, questioning the authorities, and offering a chance for transformative learning. Further, they alleviate pain and suffering, providing new virtual communities of shared experience and hearing that facilitate resilience and recovery from catastrophe. Lastly, they contribute to a cultural transformation of catastrophe—both positive and negative (Hjorth and Kyoung-hwa "The Mourning"; "Good Grief"; McCargo and Hyon-Suk 236; Brown and Minty 9; Lau et al. 675; Morgan and de Goyet 33; Piotrowski and Armstrong 341; Sood et al. 27).Has Extensive Media Coverage Resulted in an Improved Awareness of the Catastrophic Potential of Tsunami for Australians?In playing devil’s advocate, my simple response is NO! This because I have been interviewing Australians about their perceptions and knowledge of tsunamis as a catastrophe, after events have occurred. These events have triggered alerts and warnings by the Australian Tsunami Warning System (ATWS) for selected coastal regions of Australia. Consequently, I have visited coastal suburbs and interviewed people about tsunamis generally and those events specifically. Formal interviews (surveys) and informal conversations have revolved around what people perceived about the hazard, the likely consequences, what they knew about the warning, where they got their information from, how they behaved and why, and so forth. I have undertaken this work after the 2007 Solomon Islands, 2009 New Zealand, 2009 South Pacific, the February 2010 Chile, and March 2011 Japan tsunamis. I have now spoken to more than 800 people. Detailed research results will be presented elsewhere, but of relevance here, I have discovered that, to begin with, Australians have a reasonable and shared cultural knowledge of the potential catastrophic effects that tsunamis can have. They use terms such as “devastating; death; damage; loss; frightening; economic impact; societal loss; horrific; overwhelming and catastrophic.” Secondly, when I ask Australians about their sources of information about tsunamis, they describe the television (80%); Internet (85%); radio (25%); newspaper (35%); and social media including YouTube (65%). This tells me that the media are critical to underpinning knowledge of catastrophe and are a powerful transformative medium for the acquisition of knowledge. Thirdly, when asked about where people get information about live warning messages and alerts, Australians stated the “television (95%); Internet (70%); family and friends (65%).” Fourthly and significantly, when individuals were asked what they thought being caught in a tsunami would be like, responses included “fun (50%); awesome (75%); like in a movie (40%).” Fifthly, when people were asked about what they would do (i.e., their “stated behaviour”) during a real tsunami arriving at the coast, responses included “go down to the beach to swim/surf the tsunami (40%); go to the sea to watch (85%); video the tsunami and sell to the news media people (40%).”An independent and powerful representation of the disjunct between Australians’ knowledge of the catastrophic potential of tsunamis and their “negative” behavioral response can be found in viewing live television news coverage broadcast from Sydney beaches on the morning of Sunday 28 February 2010. The Chilean tsunami had taken more than 14 hours to travel from Chile to the eastern seaboard of Australia and the ATWS had issued an accurate warning and had correctly forecast the arrival time of the tsunami (approximately 08.30 am). The television and radio media had dutifully broadcast the warning issued by the State Emergency Services. The message was simple: “Stay out of the water, evacuate the beaches and move to higher ground.” As the tsunami arrived, those news broadcasts showed volunteer State Emergency Service personnel and Surf Life Saving Australia lifeguards “begging” with literally hundreds (probably thousands up and down the eastern seaboard of Australia) of members of the public to stop swimming in the incoming tsunami and to evacuate the beaches. On that occasion, Australians were lucky and the tsunami was inconsequential. What do these responses mean? Clearly Australians recognise and can describe the consequences of a tsunami. However, they are not associating the catastrophic nature of tsunami with their own lives or experience. They are avoiding or disallowing the reality; they normalise and dramaticise the event. Thus in Australia, to date, a cultural transformation about the catastrophic nature of tsunami has not occurred for reasons that are not entirely clear but are the subject of ongoing study.The Emergence of Tsunami as a “New Australian Catastrophe”?As a natural disaster expert with nearly two decades experience, in my mind tsunami has emerged as a “new Australian catastrophe.” I believe this has occurred for a number of reasons. Firstly, the 2004 IOT was devastating and did impact northwestern Australia, raising the flag on this hitherto, unknown threat. Australia is now known to be vulnerable to the tsunami catastrophe. The media have played a critical role here. Secondly, in the 2004 IOT and other tsunamis since, Australians have died and their deaths have been widely reported in the Australian media. Thirdly, the emergence of various forms of social media has facilitated an explosion in information and material that can be consumed, digested, reimagined, and normalised by Australians hungry for the gore of catastrophe—it feeds our desire for catastrophic death and destruction. Fourthly, catastrophe has been creatively imagined and retold for a story-hungry viewing public. Whether through regular television shows easily consumed from a comfy chair at home, or whilst eating popcorn at a cinema, tsunami catastrophe is being fed to us in a way that reaffirms its naturalness. Juxtaposed against this idea though is that, despite all the graphic imagery of tsunami catastrophe, especially images of dead children in other countries, Australian media do not and culturally cannot, display images of dead Australian children. Such images are widely considered too gruesome but are well known to drive changes in cultural behaviour because of the iconic significance of the child within our society. As such, a cultural shift has not yet occurred and so the potential of catastrophe remains waiting to strike. Fifthly and significantly, given the fact that large numbers of Australians have not died during recent tsunamis means that again, the catastrophic potential of tsunamis is not yet realised and has not resulted in cultural changes to more affirmative behaviour. Lastly, Australians are probably more aware of “regular or common” catastrophes such as floods and bush fires that are normal to the Australian climate system and which are endlessly experienced individually and culturally and covered by the media in all forms. The Australian summer of 2012–13 has again been dominated by floods and fires. If this idea is accepted, the media construct a uniquely Australian imaginary of catastrophe and cultural discourse of disaster. The familiarity with these common climate catastrophes makes us “culturally blind” to the catastrophe that is tsunami.The consequences of a major tsunami affecting Australia some point in the future are likely to be of a scale not yet comprehensible. References Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC). "ABC Net Splash." 20 Mar. 2013 ‹http://splash.abc.net.au/media?id=31077›. Brown, Philip, and Jessica Minty. “Media Coverage and Charitable Giving after the 2004 Tsunami.” Southern Economic Journal 75 (2008): 9–25. Bryant, Edward. Tsunami: The Underrated Hazard. First Edition, Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2001. ———. Tsunami: The Underrated Hazard. Second Edition, Sydney: Springer-Praxis, 2008. Caldwell, Anna, Natalie Gregg, Fiona Hudson, Patrick Lion, Janelle Miles, Bart Sinclair, and John Wright. “Samoa Tsunami Claims Five Aussies as Death Toll Rises.” The Courier Mail 1 Oct. 2009. 20 Mar. 2013 ‹http://www.couriermail.com.au/news/samoa-tsunami-claims-five-aussies-as-death-toll-rises/story-e6freon6-1225781357413›. CDEMA. "The Caribbean Disaster Emergency Management Agency. Tsunami SMART Media Web Site." 18 Dec. 2012. 20 Mar. 2013 ‹http://weready.org/tsunami/index.php?Itemid=40&id=40&option=com_content&view=article›. Cox, Robin, Bonita Long, and Megan Jones. “Sequestering of Suffering – Critical Discourse Analysis of Natural Disaster Media Coverage.” Journal of Health Psychology 13 (2008): 469–80. “CSI: Miami (Season 3, Episode 7).” International Movie Database (IMDb). ‹http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0534784/›. 9 Jan. 2013. "CSI: Miami (Season 3)." Wikipedia. ‹http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CSI:_Miami_(season_3)#Episodes›. 21 Mar. 2013. DFAT. "Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade Annual Report 2004–2005." 8 Jan. 2013 ‹http://www.dfat.gov.au/dept/annual_reports/04_05/downloads/2_Outcome2.pdf›. Dominey-Howes, Dale. “Geological and Historical Records of Australian Tsunami.” Marine Geology 239 (2007): 99–123. Dominey-Howes, Dale, and Randy Thaman. “UNESCO-IOC International Tsunami Survey Team Samoa Interim Report of Field Survey 14–21 October 2009.” No. 2. Australian Tsunami Research Centre. University of New South Wales, Sydney. "Hereafter." International Movie Database (IMDb). ‹http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1212419/›. 9 Jan. 2013."Hereafter." Wikipedia. ‹http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hereafter (film)›. 21 Mar. 2013. Hjorth, Larissa, and Yonnie Kyoung-hwa. “The Mourning After: A Case Study of Social Media in the 3.11 Earthquake Disaster in Japan.” Television and News Media 12 (2011): 552–59. ———, and Yonnie Kyoung-hwa. “Good Grief: The Role of Mobile Social Media in the 3.11 Earthquake Disaster in Japan.” Digital Creativity 22 (2011): 187–99. Lau, Joseph, Mason Lau, and Jean Kim. “Impacts of Media Coverage on the Community Stress Level in Hong Kong after the Tsunami on 26 December 2004.” Journal of Epidemiology and Community Health 60 (2006): 675–82. McCargo, Duncan, and Lee Hyon-Suk. “Japan’s Political Tsunami: What’s Media Got to Do with It?” International Journal of Press-Politics 15 (2010): 236–45. Miles, Brian, and Stephanie Morse. “The Role of News Media in Natural Disaster Risk and Recovery.” Ecological Economics 63 (2007): 365–73. Morgan, Olive, and Charles de Goyet. “Dispelling Disaster Myths about Dead Bodies and Disease: The Role of Scientific Evidence and the Media.” Revista Panamericana de Salud Publica-Pan American Journal of Public Health 18 (2005): 33–6. Olofsson, Anna. “The Indian Ocean Tsunami in Swedish Newspapers: Nationalism after Catastrophe.” Disaster Prevention and Management 20 (2011): 557–69. Piotrowski, Chris, and Terry Armstrong. “Mass Media Preferences in Disaster: A Study of Hurricane Danny.” Social Behavior and Personality 26 (1998): 341–45. Ploughman, Penelope. “The American Print News Media Construction of Five Natural Disasters.” Disasters 19 (1995): 308–26. Prendergast, Amy, and Nick Brown. “Far Field Impact and Coastal Sedimentation Associated with the 2006 Java Tsunami in West Australia: Post-Tsunami Survey at Steep Point, West Australia.” Natural Hazards 60 (2012): 69–79. Sharp, Joanne. “A Subaltern Critical Geopolitics of The War on Terror: Postcolonial Security in Tanzania.” Geoforum 42 (2011): 297–305. Sood, Rahul, Stockdale, Geoffrey, and Everett Rogers. “How the News Media Operate in Natural Disasters.” Journal of Communication 37 (1987): 27–41.

Introduction The first “Aquarius Festival” came together in Canberra, at the Australian National University, in the autumn of 1971 and was reprised in 1973 in the small rural town of Nimbin, in northern New South Wales. Both events reflected the Zeitgeist in what was, in some ways, an inchoate expression of the so-called “counterculture” (Roszak). Rather than attempting to analyse the counterculture as a discrete movement with a definable history, I enlist the theory of cultural memes to read the counter culture as a Dawkinsian cluster meme, with this paper offered as “testimonio”, a form of quasi-political memoir that views shifts in the culture through the lens of personal experience (Zimmerman, Yúdice). I track an evolving personal, “internal” topography and map its points of intersection with the radical social, political and cultural changes spawned by the “consciousness revolution” that was an integral part of the counterculture emerging in the 1970s. I focus particularly on the notion of “consciousness raising”, as a Dawkinsian memetic replicator, in the context of the idealistic notions of the much-heralded “New Age” of Aquarius, and propose that this meme has been a persistent feature of the evolution of the “meme cluster” known as the counterculture. Mimesis and the Counterculture Since evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins floated the notion of cultural memes as a template to account for the evolution of ideas within political cultures, a literature of commentary and criticism has emerged that debates the strengths and weaknesses of his proposed model and its application across a number of fields. I borrow the notion to trace the influence of a set of memes that clustered around the emergence of what writer Marilyn Ferguson called The Aquarian Conspiracy, in her 1980 book of that name. Ferguson’s text, subtitled Personal and Social Transformation in Our Time, was a controversial attempt to account for what was known as the “New Age” movement, with its late millennial focus on social and personal transformation. That focus leads me to approach the counterculture (a term first floated by Theodore Roszak) less as a definable historical movement and more as a cluster of aspirational tropes expressing a range of aspects or concerns, from the overt political activism through to experimental technologies for the transformation of consciousness, and all characterised by a critical interrogation of, and resistance to, conventional social norms (Ferguson’s “personal and social transformation”). With its more overtly “spiritual” focus, I read the “New Age” meme, then, as a sub-set of this “cluster meme”, the counterculture. In my reading, “New Age” and “counterculture” overlap, sharing persistent concerns and a broad enough tent to accommodate the serious—the combative political action of Students for a Democratic Society (SDS), say, (see Elbaum)—to the light-hearted—the sport of frisbee for example (Stancil). The interrogation of conventional social and political norms inherited from previous generations was a prominent strategy across both movements. Rather than offering a sociological analysis or history of the ragbag counterculture, per se, my discussion here focuses in on the particular meme of “consciousness raising” within that broader set of cultural shifts, some of which were sustained in their own right, some dropping away, and many absorbed into the dominant mainstream culture. Dawkins use of the term “meme” was rooted in the Greek mimesis, to emphasise the replication of an idea by imitation, or copying. He likened the way ideas survive and change in human culture to the natural selection of genes in biological evolution. While the transmission of memes does not depend on a physical medium, such as the DNA of biology, they replicate with a greater or lesser degree of success by harnessing human social media in a kind of “infectivity”, it is argued, through “contagious” repetition among human populations. Dawkins proposed that just as biological organisms could be said to act as “hosts” for replicating genes, in the same way people and groups of people act as hosts for replicating memes. Even before Dawkins floated his term, French biologist Jacques Monod wrote that ideas have retained some of the properties of organisms. Like them, they tend to perpetuate their structure and to breed; they too can fuse, recombine, segregate their content; indeed they too can evolve, and in this evolution selection must surely play an important role. (165, emphasis mine) Ideas have power, in Monod’s analysis: “They interact with each other and with other mental forces in the same brain, in neighbouring brains, and thanks to global communication, in far distant, foreign brains” (Monod, cited in Gleick). Emblematic of the counterculture were various “New Age” phenomena such as psychedelic drugs, art and music, with the latter contributing the “Aquarius” meme, whose theme song came from the stage musical (and later, film) Hair, and particularly the lyric that runs: “This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius”. The Australian Aquarius Festivals of 1971 and 1973 explicitly invoked this meme in the way identified by Monod and the “Aquarius” meme resonated even in Australia. Problematising “Aquarius” As for the astrological accuracy of the “Age of Aquarius meme”, professional astrologers argue about its dating, and the qualities that supposedly characterise it. When I consulted with two prominent workers in this field for the preparation of this article, I was astonished to find their respective dating of the putative Age of Aquarius were centuries apart! What memes were being “hosted” here? According to the lyrics: When the moon is in the seventh house And Jupiter aligns with Mars Then peace will guide the planets And love will steer the stars. (Hair) My astrologer informants assert that the moon is actually in the seventh house twice every year, and that Jupiter aligns with Mars every two years. Yet we are still waiting for the outbreak of peace promised according to these astrological conditions. I am also informed that there’s no “real” astrological underpinning for the aspirations of the song’s lyrics, for an astrological “Age” is not determined by any planet but by constellations rising, they tell me. Most important, contrary to the aspirations embodied in the lyrics, peace was not guiding the planets and love was not about to “steer the stars”. For Mars is not the planet of love, apparently, but of war and conflict and, empowered with the expansiveness of Jupiter, it was the forceful aggression of a militaristic mind-set that actually prevailed as the “New Age” supposedly dawned. For the hippified summer of love had taken a nosedive with the tragic events at the Altamont speedway, near San Francisco in 1969, when biker gangs, enlisted to provide security for a concert performance by The Rolling Stones allegedly provoked violence, marring the event and contributing to a dawning disillusionment (for a useful coverage of the event and its historical context see Dalton). There was a lot of far-fetched poetic licence involved in this dreaming, then, but memes, according to Nikos Salingaros, are “greatly simplified versions of patterns”. “The simpler they are, the faster they can proliferate”, he writes, and the most successful memes “come with a great psychological appeal” (243, 260; emphasis mine). What could be retrieved from this inchoate idealism? Harmony and understanding Sympathy and trust abounding No more falsehoods or derisions Golden living dreams of visions Mystic crystal revelation And the mind’s true liberation Aquarius, Aquarius. (Hair) In what follows I want to focus on this notion: “mind’s true liberation” by tracing the evolution of this project of “liberating” the mind, reflected in my personal journey. Nimbin and Aquarius I had attended the first Aquarius Festival, which came together in Canberra, at the Australian National University, in the autumn of 1971. I travelled there from Perth, overland, in a Ford Transit van, among a raggedy band of tie-dyed hippie actors, styled as The Campus Guerilla Theatre Troupe, re-joining our long-lost sisters and brothers as visionary pioneers of the New Age of Aquarius. Our visions were fueled with a suitcase full of potent Sumatran “buddha sticks” and, contrary to Biblical prophesies, we tended to see—not “through a glass darkly” but—in psychedelic, pop-, and op-art explosions of colour. We could see energy, man! Two years later, I found myself at the next Aquarius event in Nimbin, too, but by that time I inhabited a totally different mind-zone, albeit one characterised by the familiar, intense idealism. In the interim, I had been arrested in 1971 while “tripping out” in Sydney on potent “acid”, or LSD (Lysergic acid diethylamide); had tried out political engagement at the Pram Factory Theatre in Melbourne; had camped out in protest at the flooding of Lake Pedder in the Tasmanian wilderness; met a young guru, started meditating, and joined “the ashram”—part of the movement known as the Divine Light Mission, which originated in India and was carried to the “West” (including Australia) by an enthusiastic and evangelical following of drug-toking drop-outs who had been swarming through India intent on escaping the dominant culture of the military-industrial complex and the horrors of the Vietnam War. Thus, by the time of the 1973 event in Nimbin, while other festival participants were foraging for “gold top” magic mushrooms in farmers’ fields, we devotees had put aside such chemical interventions in conscious awareness to dig latrines (our “service” project for the event) and we invited everyone to join us for “satsang” in the yellow, canvas-covered, geodesic dome, to attend to the message of peace. The liberation meme had shifted through a mutation that involved lifestyle-changing choices that were less about alternative approaches to sustainable agriculture and more about engaging directly with “mind’s true liberation”. Raising Consciousness What comes into focus here is the meme of “consciousness raising”, which became the persistent project within which I lived and worked and had my being for many years. Triggered initially by the ingestion of those psychedelic substances that led to my shocking encounter with the police, the project was carried forward into the more disciplined environs of my guru’s ashrams. However, before my encounter with sustained spiritual practice I had tried to work the shift within the parameters of an ostensibly political framework. “Consciousness raising” was a form of political activism borrowed from the political sphere. Originally generated by Mao Zedong in China during the revolutionary struggle to overthrow the vested colonial interests that were choking Chinese nationalism in the 1940s, to our “distant, foreign brains” (Monod), as Western revolutionary romantics, Chairman Mao and his Little Red Book were taken up, in a kind of international counterculture solidarity with revolutionaries everywhere. It must be admitted, this solidarity was a fairly superficial gesture. Back in China it might be construed as part of a crude totalitarian campaign to inculcate Marxist-Leninist political ideas among the peasant classes (see Compestine for a fictionalised account of traumatic times; Han Suyin’s long-form autobiography—an early example of testimonio as personal and political history—offers an unapologetic account of a struggle not usually construed as sympathetically by Western commentators). But the meme (and the processes) of consciousness raising were picked up by feminists in the United States in the late 1960s and into the 1970s (Brownmiller 21) and it was in this form I encountered it as an actor with the politically engaged theatre troupe, The Australian Performing Group, at Carlton’s Pram Factory Theatre in late 1971. The Performance Group I performed as a core member of the Group in 1971-72. Decisions as to which direction the Group should take were to be made as a collective, and the group veered towards anarchy. Most of the women were getting together outside of the confines of the Pram Factory to raise their consciousness within the Carlton Women’s Liberation Cell Group. While happy that the sexual revolution was reducing women’s sexual inhibitions, some of the men at the Factory were grumbling into their beer, disturbed that intimate details of their private lives—and their sexual performance—might be disclosed and raked over by a bunch of radical feminists. As they began to demand equal rights to orgasm in the bedroom, the women started to seek equal access within the performance group, too. They requested rehearsal time to stage the first production by the Women’s Theatre Group, newly formed under the umbrella of the wider collective. As all of the acknowledged writers in the Group so far were men—some of whom had not kept pace in consciousness raising—scripts tended to be viewed as part of a patriarchal plot, so Betty Can Jump was an improvised piece, with the performance material developed entirely by the cast in workshop-style rehearsals, under the direction of Kerry Dwyer (see Blundell, Zuber-Skerritt 21, plus various contributors at www.pramfactory.com/memoirsfolder/). I was the only male in the collective included in the cast. Several women would have been more comfortable if no mere male were involved at all. My gendered attitudes would scarcely have withstood a critical interrogation but, as my partner was active in launching the Women’s Electoral Lobby, I was given the benefit of the doubt. Director Kerry Dwyer liked my physicalised approach to performance (we were both inspired by the “poor theatre” of Jerzy Grotowski and the earlier surrealistic theories of Antonin Artaud), and I was cast to play all the male parts, whatever they would be. Memorable material came up in improvisation, much of which made it into the performances, but my personal favorite didn’t make the cut. It was a sprawling movement piece where I was “born” out of a symbolic mass of writhing female bodies. It was an arduous process and, after much heaving and huffing, I emerged from the birth canal stammering “SSSS … SSSS … SSMMMO-THER”! The radical reversioning of culturally authorised roles for women has inevitably, if more slowly, led to a re-thinking of the culturally approved and reinforced models of masculinity, too, once widely accepted as entirely biologically ordained rather than culturally constructed. But the possibility of a queer re-versioning of gender would be recognised only slowly. Liberation Meanwhile, Dennis Altman was emerging as an early spokesman for gay, or homosexual, liberation and he was invited to address the collective. Altman’s stirring book, Homosexual: Oppression and Liberation, had recently been published, but none of us had read it. Radical or not, the Group had shown little evidence of sensitivity to gender-queer issues. My own sexuality was very much “oppressed” rather than liberated and I would have been loath to use “queer” to describe myself. The term “homosexual” was fraught with pejorative, quasi-medical associations and, in a collective so divided across strict and sometimes hostile gender boundaries, deviant affiliations got short shrift. Dennis was unsure of his reception before this bunch of apparent “heteros”. Sitting at the rear of the meeting, I admired his courage. It took more self-acceptance than I could muster to confront the Group on this issue at the time. Somewhere in the back of my mind, “homosexuality” was still something I was supposed to “get over”, so I failed to respond to Altman’s implicit invitation to come out and join the party. The others saw me in relationship with a woman and whatever doubts they might have carried about the nature of my sexuality were tactfully suspended. Looking back, I am struck by the number of simultaneous poses I was trying to maintain: as an actor; as a practitioner of an Artaudian “theatre of cruelty”; as a politically committed activist; and as a “hetero”-sexual. My identity was an assemblage of entities posing as “I”; it was as if I were performing a self. Little gay boys are encouraged from an early age to hide their real impulses, not only from others—in the very closest circle, the family; at school; among one’s peers—but from themselves, too. The coercive effects of shaming usually fix the denial into place in our psyches before we have any intellectual (or political) resources to consider other options. Growing up trying to please, I hid my feelings. In my experience, it could be downright dangerous to resist the subtle and gross coercions that applied around gender normativity. The psychoanalyst D. W. Winnicott, of the British object-relations school, argues that when the environment does not support the developing personality and requires the person to sacrifice his or her own spontaneous needs to adapt to environmental demands, there is not even a resting-place for individual experience and the result is a failure in the primary narcissistic state to evolve an individual. The “individual” then develops as an extension of the shell rather than that of the core [...] What there is left of a core is hidden away and is difficult to find even in the most far-reaching analysis. The individual then exists by not being found. The true self is hidden, and what we have to deal with clinically is the complex false self whose function is to keep this true self hidden. (212) How to connect to that hidden core, then? “Mind’s true liberation...” Alienated from the performative version of selfhood, but still inspired by the promise of liberation, even in the “fuzzy” form for which my inchoate hunger yearned (sexual liberation? political liberation? mystical liberation?), I was left to seek out a more authentic basis for selfhood, one that didn’t send me spinning along the roller-coaster of psychedelic drugs, or lie to me with the nostrums of a toxic, most forms of which would deny me, as a sexual, moral and legal pariah, the comforts of those “anchorage points to the social matrix” identified by Soddy (cited in Mol 58). My spiritual inquiry was “counter” to these institutionalised models of religious culture. So, I began to read my way through a myriad of books on comparative religion. And to my surprise, rather than taking up with the religions of antique cultures, instead I encountered a very young guru, initially as presented in a simply drawn poster in the window of Melbourne’s only vegetarian restaurant (Shakahari, in Carlton). “Are you hungry and tired of reading recipe books?” asked the figure in the poster. I had little sense of where that hunger would lead me, but it seemed to promise a fulfilment in ways that the fractious politics of the APG offered little nourishment. So, while many of my peers in the cities chose to pursue direct political action, and others experimented with cooperative living in rural communes, I chose the communal lifestyle of the ashram. In these different forms, then, the conscious raising meme persisted when other challenges raised by the counterculture either faded or were absorbed in the mainstream. I finally came to realise that the intense disillusionment process I had been through (“dis-illusionment” as the stripping away of illusions) was the beginning of awakening, in effect a “spiritual initiation” into a new way of seeing myself and my “place” in the world. Buddhist teachers might encourage this very kind of stripping away of false notions as part of their teaching, so the aspiration towards the “true liberation” of the mind expressed in the Aquarian visioning might be—and in my case, actually has been and continues to be—fulfilled to a very real extent. Gurus and the entire turn towards Eastern mysticism were part of the New Age meme cluster prevailing during the early 1970s, but I was fortunate to connect with an enduring set of empirical practices that haven’t faded with the fashions of the counterculture. A good guitarist would never want to play in public without first tuning her instrument. In a similar way, it is now possible for me to tune my mind back to a deeper, more original source of being than the socially constructed sense of self, which had been so fraught with conflicts for me. I have discovered that before gender, and before sexuality, in fact, pulsing away behind the thicket of everyday associations, there is an original, unconditioned state of beingness, the awareness of which can be reclaimed through focused meditation practices, tested in a wide variety of “real world” settings. For quite a significant period of time I worked as an instructor in the method on behalf of my guru, or mentor, travelling through a dozen or so countries, and it was through this exposure that I was able to observe that the practices worked independently of culture and that “mind’s true liberation” was in many ways a de-programming of cultural indoctrinations (see Marsh, 2014, 2013, 2011 and 2007 for testimony of this process). In Japan, Zen roshi might challenge their students with the koan: “Show me your original face, before you were born!” While that might seem to be an absurd proposal, I am finding that there is a potential, if unexpected, liberation in following through such an inquiry. As “hokey” as the Aquarian meme-set might have been, it was a reflection of the idealistic hope that characterised the cluster of memes that aggregated within the counterculture, a yearning for healthier life choices than those offered by the toxicity of the military-industrial complex, the grossly exploitative effects of rampant Capitalism and a politics of cynicism and domination. The meme of the “true liberation” of the mind, then, promised by the heady lyrics of a 1970s hippie musical, has continued to bear fruit in ways that I could not have imagined. References Altman, Dennis. Homosexual Oppression and Liberation. Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1972. Blundell, Graeme. The Naked Truth: A Life in Parts. Sydney: Hachette, 2011. Brownmiller, Susan. In Our Time: Memoir of a Revolution. New York: The Dial Press, 1999. Compestine, Ying Chang. Revolution Is Not a Dinner Party. New York: Square Fish, 2009. Dalton, David. “Altamont: End of the Sixties, Or Big Mix-Up in the Middle of Nowhere?” Gadfly Nov/Dec 1999. April 2014 ‹http://www.gadflyonline.com/archive/NovDec99/archive-altamont.html›. Dawkins, Richard. The Selfish Gene. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1976. Elbaum, Max. Revolution in the Air: Sixties Radicals Turn to Lenin, Mao and Che. London and New York: Verso, 2002. Ferguson, Marilyn. The Aquarian Conspiracy. Los Angeles: Tarcher Putnam, 1980. Gleick, James. “What Defines a Meme?” Smithsonian Magazine 2011. April 2014 ‹http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/What-Defines-a Meme.html›. Hair, The American Tribal Love Rock Musical. Prod. Michael Butler. Book by Gerome Ragni and James Rado; Lyrics by Gerome Ragni and James Rado; Music by Galt MacDermot; Musical Director: Galt MacDermot. 1968. 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