"Obviously some people see us as an easy target, but we won't be any more. We're going to have to keep this place under surveillance. We just can't afford to let this go on."
The straw that broke the camel's back was the theft last week of a couple of batteries from Mr Murray's barge and 10 litres of petrol. The latter was hardly worth the effort of driving to the farm, he said, and replacing the batteries wouldn't put him out too much, but in the process of taking them the thief had done damage to the barge that he expected would cost up to $3000 to repair.
The farm had been raided by thieves more times than he could count. On one occasion he lost a compressor, the thieves cutting a lock to get through a gate, cutting another lock to get into a shed then cutting the chain that was holding the compressor down.
"It would have taken three people to lift it out," he said.
He had no doubt that the thieves were local - only locals would know where to find the farm - and that made it worse, not least because others would know who was responsible, and were saying nothing.
"It's our people who are doing this to us," he said.
The theft problem had worsened over the three years since the farm had generated any meaningful income, thanks to the virus that had decimated the oyster industry. In its hey day it had employed four people, along with 20 openers recruited by its customers. Now only Mr Murray, his wife, a son and a daughter were working it, unpaid, to keep it going in the hope that better times would return.
Once the farm had produced around 30 tonnes of oysters a week; now it was producing enough to sell to niche markets, earning just enough for the family to survive on, with income generated by other work.
"We're digging in," Mr Murray said.
"We have to. We have nowhere else to go. We can't just move to Australia like everyone else seems to be doing. We've got our fingers crossed that things will come right over the next couple of years. We'll bounce back. And we're going to put a stop to the thieving."
