Hot. Barren. Dry. Salty.
Very, very Windy.
I came over the hill hungover from a morning sinking beer with a random bunch of methheads, after a night aslseep in a Dominos carpark. I was a few hours down the road now. I was in a better place.
It’d been like… 20 years almost. Since I’d been to Margaret River.
I remembered the way to Gracetown.
I felt like a touro as I found my way along the headland to watch the break. With the other touros.
As locals ran out and launched off the rocks into the fresh swell.
‘Look at all these hardcore surfer cunts with their jetski mates’ I thought as the duo on the jetski hooted and claimed a surfers silhouetted slotted-ness
And She was hardly breaking yet.
Big holes in old dirt.
West of Tom Price there are cracks in the ground where hunks of iron ore the size of kombi vans lay in trickling streams half the year.
The other half of the year that ‘kombi ore’ is tossed around like marbles underwater all through the wet season.
Thats Kalbarri. Its a tiny bit of national park in rich desert lands surrounded by gashes of hacked up mountain and desert.
Last day at the resort.
We fished. Then we set up a party.
My farewell bash was a big bonfire at the bottom of a bunch of sandstone cliffs. 2 very large eskys full of beer and a few litres of expresso martini mix.
At somepoint I performed a ‘transformer’ before the entire resort staff to the tune of ‘Walk on the Wild Side’ by Lou Reed. Then danced around with my junk floppng about in the firelight.
Then, a blur.
There were lots of good times on that patch of sand a few hours from anywhere.