She wanted to get away. I wanted to go anywhere.
But I had no idea here to go. A year of immobility had numbed my spirit and shortened my horizons drastically. Luckily she had a plan.
We jimmied the lock on a Wicked camper parked on the Burleigh esplanade whilst the campers were enraptured in a drum circle on a Sunday evening, then crossed the border in the setting sun.
We crossed rivers and passed small towns propped up by roadtrains and greasy food. The sky fell down on us and we pulled down a dirt road and parked on a sloped hillside. I was skeptical, my adventurous spirit deadened by the comforts of apartment living. She assured me this was the place.
This would be the cure for our city woes.
Migaloo was back in town. He might only swing by the coast once or twice a year. Hence the name. That, and this cat loves to cut some rug. Ya dig?
Myself, I’m known about these waters as Muddy Kegs. I’m known to swing into a few round ones near the seaways after the summer rains. Bullsharks nippin at my cropped churchill swim-fins.
Then you got Beef Carvey, a man nearly as solid as the walls he throws himself over. And thats saying something.
The trio of us set out the back for some at the local. Spread out along the lineup. Calling the sets. Calling the rides. Dominating the small crowd of blow-ins who know to just keep on paddling when this crew is eyeing off the sets. Solid times for a solid crew out the back in Balmy Palmy. The 4221. Original Gold City Underground town.
Though it would be a laugh to head to the name breaks to check the circus and show Nigaloo what he’s been missing whilst he’s been slapping down Arctic walls like some kinda rubber seal. The real mobs.
When that cat Migaloo got on the plane back to Norway he wouldn’t be missing that mess no doubt. I’m sure that cats dolphin kicking onto a few cresters off the shallow end of an iceberg right about now… with no crew in sight.