One ritual, every open night
Two stories live at Seagrass Point: what the building used to be, and what happens inside it, night after night, the moment the doors open.
The first guest, the last guest
Every open night follows the same shape. Someone's always first through the door, usually a few minutes before six, and a dealer has a table ready before they've even sat down.
From there it just keeps going: a second guest, a third, a table fills, another opens upstairs, and by eight the whole building's found its rhythm.
It ends the same way every time, too — last hands called, chips counted back at the counter, and whoever's left heads out into the dark above the harbour.
First arrival
Usually a few minutes before six, most open nights.
Last to leave
Somewhere around half twelve, once the last hand's called.
A net-maker's shed, once
Boat Harbour Drive backs onto water thick with seagrass — the meadows the whole strait's dugongs depend on — and this building started out mending nets for the boats that worked around it.
Benches ran down both walls once, nets strung up to dry, not far from where the counter now stands.
When the fishing fleet thinned out, the shed sat idle for years before it was fitted out as a card lounge, keeping its harbour-facing windows along the way.
Working shed
Net-mending benches for the harbour's fishing fleet.
Idle years
Stood empty for years as the fishing fleet thinned out.
Now
Five felt tables over two floors, and a dealer for every one.