Beach Cows

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I was crunching the gears and bunnyhopping before we’d even started. Sticks.

30 year old cant drive a stick. And he’s trying to take his mum for a beach bash to the creek in a borrowed rust-bucket.

The lads in the back were quiet until Mum started giving me shit.

“Fuck sakes… hill starts are tricky when you don’t have a handbrake”

The rusted thing lurches and starts to roll backwards down the hill.

“You don’t have to make excuses son HAHAHAHA”

Sniggers from the back.

Dammit. Open Season on the goose. Me.

It was good once I got through the resort. Onto the beach. Nice packed sand. Feels like you’re driving faster than you are when you’re right on the water. Feels good.

We didn’t get any fish down the creek. I never caught shit down there. It was always more about getting down there. Its a pretty spot. At night, its insane. The stars bouncing right off the water, the sound of Barra jumping in the black and nothing else.

Following tracks on the way back.  Saw some Cows grazing on the beach. They always looked so strange. Those beach cows…

 

 

 

Horse Stepping

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I was counting the days. Work was done.

Those days. They all folded together….

People were bailing. Cramming their backpacks, their cars, and heading to the next great thing. It was sometimes sad, but we’d seen a lot of turnover throughout the season and I wasn’t far off myself.

Half the kitchen were getting into the fitness program again. Some had a couple more months to go. Some are still rocking out the Wet season with the skeleton crew.

I told Chef Karl that I’d fallen in love. He asked me “Who?”. I didn’t know her name. It was a image taken by a photographer called Mike Brodie. I described a filthy train-jumper with her skirt pulled up, a disgusted look on her face, tattoo’d knuckles and a blood stain on her underwear. He shook his head and told me I was a fucking disgrace.

I laughed and walked back to the bar for a few more Campari’s.

 

 

 

Liminal deity

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Reeling. A couple of hours sleep. Stinking of smoke. Shattered, strungout and a little stoned. I pulled out of the 5 mile driveway and began the shortest leg of the longest drive.

I was going back East. The first days drive was the hardest. I nodded off behind the wheel a couple of times. I made it to a long white empty beach, saw a small shore-break. I thanked Hermes that I’d made it without flipping the Magna and called it a day. 

Waves don’t get much prettier than when they break over white sand.

It sucked to leave my home of six months. All the mates I’d made and good times had were left in the red dirt my bald wheels kicked up behind me.

It was a melancholy time.

1629: Funky Adventure Times

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That lifeguard shack and the left behind it. I remembered seeing photos of it in advertisements in old surfing magazines in the 90’s. The Search. Rip Curl.

The first whitefellas to see it break were most likely a couple of Dutch mutineers who were dropped off on the back beach around the corner.

In 1629.

I doubt they surfed. Its a stunning area though and I imagine it to have been rich and plentiful in natural offerings. They had a fighting chance.

I think of all the thousands of miles of Western Australian coast you could be dropped off on with nothing but your wits, this area might’ve been one of the better places going.