Daintree Frank is a slim, elfin, sun bronzed, leathery skinned old hippie from up north, the Daintree. He lives in an old wooden house facing onto a beach, in the far remote north. A rainforest is his backyard, the beach his home, and the wild, open ocean his orchestra.

To the dance of the stars, the pull of the moon, and the supreme gaze of the sun, the ocean throbs and recedes, crashes and dumps, through day and night, washing a wet rhythmic chorus behind Daintree Frank's fine tremolo tenor. His voice is like a piccolo, high, tremulous, vibrating.

Today, Frank was in Sydney, meeting up with Simon under the 4th old Moreton Bay Fig tree from the herb garden. Sitting between the tree's vast wooden roots, straddling the tree and earth like huge thighs, Frank opened his lunchbox. Inside was a brown rice salad, peppered with sunflower seeds, pine nuts and finely chopped celery. Alonside was an avocado, mango and chilli salsa. Frank was so busy eating, he didnt feel the eyes watching him.