Threading the Needle.

3.2.15Devo-1 3.2.15SpiritofTas-1 3.2.15SpiritofTas-2 3.2.15SpiritofTas-3 3.2.15SpiritofTas-4 3.2.15SpiritofTas-5 3.2.15SpiritofTas-7 3.2.15SpiritofTas-6


Tasmania was good to me but the brief Tasmanian times were over. I spent my last day drinking in a small town with a retired maths teacher who told me in his darkest times he would stroll the paddocks and talk to sheep at night.

Next evening the boat lumbered out to sea and rocked all night as it was battered by a fierce storm and an 8 meter swell.

I slept on a bench on the top deck where empty tinnies rolled around the floor and the rain leaked from the ceiling. Empty. The chairs swiveled with the rocking boat. I’d step outside for a smoke occasionally. The waves cracking into the hull would make the whole vessel shudder and soon after a rain of spray from the impact would fall on me. I didn’t get much sleep.

I had a lot to think about.

Like, where to next?




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