HMVS Cerberus Adventures
There were plenty of sensible things a young person could do on a hot Melbourne day during the summer holidays in the 1970's. We, of course, chose none of them. Instead, we'd ride our bikes to the beach and swim out to the rusting hulk of the HMVS Cerberus off Black Rock — that grand old ironclad that looks like someone had half-finished a model battleship and then forgot where they put it.
Back then, the HMVS Cerberus wasn't just a historic naval relic. To us, it was a floating playground with a mild risk of tetanus. We'd set off from the beach with the bravery of teenage boys who hadn't yet developed a sense of consequence. The swim was long enough to bring out a mild sense of panic when you felt your limbs tiring, but short enough that you didn't turn back and pretend you were "just checking the temperature."
Sometimes, we'd stop and borrow the shade of whatever yachts were anchored between the shore and the Cerberus. But really, we were looking for something to hang onto because we were knackered and didn't want to admit it. Admitting your weaknesses to your mates wasn't the done thing when I was a teenager. Most of us felt compelled to portray the tough-guy image, but in reality, we were all a bunch of 'try-hards' with skinny arms and legs, desperately hoping to sprout a few more dark hairs in the armpits to help us look more manly.
Please Don't Collapse on Me
The HMVS Cerberus itself was magnificent in a "please don't collapse on me" kind of way. Launched in 1868, it was once the pride of the Victorian Navy. It was fitted with big guns and designed to defend Port Phillip Bay from enemies who, presumably, recognised danger when they saw it and stayed away. After being decommissioned, the ship slowly transformed into the scenic rust pile we know and love today.
But in those days, before safety barriers, warning signs, and common sense, you could swim right into the broken hull and clamber inside. It felt like entering a forgotten world — a dark, echoing metal cavern that smelled of salt, seaweed, and the ghosts of sailors judging our life choices.
Eventually, we'd scramble onto the deck — or what remained of it — and stretch out like lizards on the wooden planks. This was the highlight. Sunbaking on the HMVS Cerberus felt like lying on a relic of Victoria's maritime past while pretending we were shipwreck survivors awaiting rescue … or at least waiting for the energy to get back to shore.
The real problem wasn't getting out there. Nope. The real problem was getting back in the water and swimming to the shore. After baking on the boards for longer than a sausage at a Bunnings Sausage Sizzle, the water looked cold and uninviting. We'd stand there, staring toward the red cliffs at Half Moon Bay, toes curled on the edge of the rusted plating, trying to psych ourselves up.
"On three," someone would say.
No one ever jumped on three.
Eventually, someone would slip and fall in, and the rest of us would follow because embarrassment is stronger than cold.
Today, the Cerberus is in far rougher shape — collapsed in parts, heavily corroded, and resting like a tired old sea creature just off Half Moon Bay. Preservation groups have worked hard to protect what's left, and now you can only admire it from a respectful distance (which, incidentally, is much warmer and safer than our method).
But whenever I see it — that iconic silhouette half-submerged off Black Rock — I'm taken back to those youthful swims. To the desperate clambering into the hull. To the yachts we treated like floating rest stops, to the sunbaking on the wooden deck warmed by history and the blistering Australian sun. To the way we always regretted — always — having to plunge back into cold water for the exhausting struggle back to the shallows of Half Moon Bay.
It's funny how a rusting warship can become part of your personal mythology. For God's sake, that old warship may be collapsing slowly into the sea, but it still managed to find its way into my upcoming book, The Room Under The House. And she's still holding up the memories of countless reckless young swimmers who thought nothing of exploring a 19th-century ironclad with nothing but a pair of goggles and teenage bravado.
And honestly? I wouldn't trade those freezing swims or sunburnt shoulders for anything.
But if you asked me today if I would swim out to the old rust bucket that is the HMVS Cerberus, and clamber up the inside of the rusting hull like an old sloth in boardshorts, my answer probably wouldn't come as much of a surprise.
'Definitely not!'
