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…
We saw that the waves had picked up our Kayaks while we swam around the caves, destroying my fishing rod and tossing all our things into the brine. Rappa lost a pair of shades worth 100 dollarydoos. And a hat.
We paddled the waterlogged Yaks back to the resort, agreeing that the toll was well worth it.
A king tide sunset in the Kimberly.
In the town of Broome a few hours to the north a few hundred grey nomads crowd the balcony of the Mangrove Hotel to view a natural phenomena.
A giant new Moon pokes out from behind a wall of cloud. Its reflection begins to stretch over the mangroves as it lifts into the sky. A narrow beam of light playing with the tidal ridges in the sand of the mangroves below.
The digeridoo drones and the bimli go clack clack clack.
It looks like a set of golden steps descending from the heavens.
Down the hill in the shadow of the Hotel. Theres a pile of shells, large as a dune. A shell midden. I like to imagine what it was like on that spot thousands of years ago.
To know what it meant when they saw that moonbeam bounce across the mud.
I’ll walk down the beach till the only footprints are my own.
Silence is bliss but I go here to dance and so, the music plays loudly.
The sun will hit the water soon.
A solo Stompy Wampy.
It’s good for the heart.
When it was slow going at the resort we got a few nights off a week and you’d find a lot of the staff down the beach. They’d be swinging in hammocks or casting lines into the still sea as the sun dropped behind the headland.
We’d all be drinking beers and talking shit. Getting to know one another. It was early days.
There were more staff than guests. The hours were light and the workload easy. I was still earning more than I was back on the Gold Coast doing double the hours.
And it felt like we’d all lucked out.
No surf in the Kimberly. No surf for me.
That sea is like a lake. I know it’s pumping down south. I know its pumping out East.
I got my little shoredump. It comes through sometimes.
Gives me a little fix.