We made our break for it. The boat cleared the jetty, leaving behind the ghostly remnants of 19th-century colonial justice: dour penitentiary, military barracks, lunatic asylum. Straight ahead, a squat lump of mudstone: the Isle of the Dead, final resting place of over 1,100 souls (officers in marked graves, convicts in mass ones). Beyond that, navy waters, kelp gulls and our destination: Port Arthur inlet’s forested far shore.
However, there was no rush. We spent an hour skimming down the sound and back, past sea caves and fur seals, before edging into the emerald shallows of Denmans Cove. Ramp lowered, we walked onto its squeaky white sand, along a creek and into the bush. Across the inlet, the prison ruins were now barely visible through a smugglers’ mist. Our escape…
