I love the old wharves around the inner Sydney Harbour and Heather evokes those memories:
Docklands' creaking wharves - timbers silvered by salt-caked sea and sun. Giant trees felled and planted again dead in the depths creating squealing platforms to lauch form edge to edge. Great carcasses rust along side the shimmer and tinkle of yachts and shiny faces baked. You can feel the rank smell of burbling mud, alive with crusty hermits, when the edge shifts in time with the ebb and flow of the great ocean's moon walk.