Another Side of Cape Point ...

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A while back — give or take several hundred thousand to untold millions of years, a massive section of the south-eastern side of Cape Point (next to the parking area) broke away and crashed into the ocean. Left to the wind and tides, the jagged rock smoothed to a gentle bulge and later a flat ledge at the base of the peninsula. In short, a divers' paradise replete with galjoen, hottentot, red roman, steenbras, and yellowtail.

Having scrambled down the fiendishly hidden path to the left of the parking area, i.e. away from the restaurant, the first things you'll notice on the rocks are the crayfish shells. These shells explain the almost-certain presence of a well-hidden ranger in the area and, although you might not mind wandering a short coast beneath several hundred tourists — none of whom seem to glance down, you'll feel watched.

That feeling — antithetical to the Cape Point spirit and oblivious to 65 kmh winds, saw me scrambling pointwards up what I assume to be Plumpudding Rock, a large outcrop slowly detaching from the main cliffs. About 150 feet up, I came across a plateau or ledge overlooking the eroded section. The wind and sea, borne on the southeaster, have bored into the face of the mountain, forming a deep, extremely steep cove.

It's stunningly beautiful and, as if to improve on perfection, a rock already detached from the mainland is visible further south. Although the outer contour of the southerly rock follows that of the point, it's as though a giant, neatly shaped wedge has been excised from it, leaving it orphaned from the land.

Given an assortment of oddly coloured rocks on its summit and years of guano covering its bulk, it's very obviously shaped like a penguin, standing and looking up at the point it's just abandoned.

The rock is paradoxically hard to see given its prominence when viewed head on. Not visible from the parking area at the foot of the old lighthouse — Plumpudding Rock obscures it, it doesn't leap out at you from the Lighthouse Keeper's path farther south. And from the sea — you can see it clearly from The Coves across False Bay, it merges with the cliffs alongside it.

I guess very few people get to see it. And it's probably a good thing. That drop to the coast sends my stomach plummeting to my boots on thinking of it. The south-easter howls around the point and slams directly into the rockface. Getting a couple of shots demands crawling out along the spur and the gale renders a camera live. It lurches and bucks and can be clicked only between violent gusts.

I climbed the rest of the way up and, it seems, over the hill, bumbled around some ugly, windblasted rockfaces, and eventually crashed through the trees looking for all the world like a local resident to confront several startled tourists halfway up the hill to the old lighthouse.

"Penguin Rock," answered the ranger scanning the coast for crayfish poachers from the parking area on my asking the feature's name.