Grey Guts

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It was spitting down all day. Spitting on all the families who had loaded up the campers and headed to the coast for the end of the holidays. Spitting on the windscreen as I rolled through town after town. Spitting on my arm hanging out the window as I turned down another coastal road.

It was muggy as hell. I felt a greasy slick on my skin. Driving makes me irritable. After a few hours I’m a hazzard.

I found a place to camp for the night. The spit turned to a shower and then a downpour. I swam in a grey looking ocean to clean up. To clear my head. The water was like ice on my skin but the surface of the water was glassy and calm. I grabbed handfuls of sand and scrubbed the dirty greasy feeling from my skin.  Afterwards I bodysurfed into a few small waves in the shorebreak. A good way to end the day.

It rained for two more days and I was never dry. The car began to stink of damp. It was a bit of a downer.

It’d be sunny soon enough. Sure.

There’d be better times ahead. Of course.

And it was, and there were. And so on…

 

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I’d set up the camera in the kitchen and was going to let it run taking a shot every 2 seconds for the next hour and a half. It was my day off and I wasn’t going to stick around and watch the lads get pounded as the orders begun to stack up. They were a man down in the madhouse and thats just not a party. I knew I’d be out the doors within the next fortnight so I had to get the shots while I could. No-one else besides me knew that at the time. I was shooting little time-lapse farewell gift for myself.

I took the old 5100 to the beach. The sun was nearly set and the light diffused and grey. The walkers and runners and yogis were squeezing it in. If you’ve got a body complex the Gold Coast is not your scene. Every dawn and dusk the Shame parade will be Crossfitting, Bootcamping, Boxercising, Pilatemaking and The Next Thinging from Tally Creek to Miami. They’ll be surfing too. The sea was full of stingers. Nothing bad, I’d been stung earlier in the face and it felt like someone scraping sandpaper across my cheek. Then it itched for a while. Then it was done. Like a jump-scare in a shitty horror film. Startling. Irritating.

The sky darkened as I was popping flashes into a beached stinger and I almost missed the crimson sunset.

When it was too dark I went for a pint in a pub opposite the restaurant. Thousands of lorikeets were chirping madly in the trees nearby. The restaurant was full. The boys were getting hammerfucked for sure. I felt like a prick when I went to pick the camera up not long after.