Here’s the routine when I get to Melbourne. Spam anyone I know who’s living there to see if they want to catch up as I get into the city, giving all involved as little time to make plans as possible. Go crash on a friends couch, eat all their food, make a big mess of their kitchen and facilities and then wander into the city. I go to All-Star Comics and throw down a few hundred dollars on books I don’t have a bookshelf for, then go to the markets and drool over the produce until I become overwhelmed and have to leave. Afterwards I’ll drink beer whenever I’m thirsty and always… always catchup with Larry Boxhaul because he’s… He’s Larry man.
And I’ll take a few lousy photos along the way.
Tasmania was good to me but the brief Tasmanian times were over. I spent my last day drinking in a small town with a retired maths teacher who told me in his darkest times he would stroll the paddocks and talk to sheep at night.
Next evening the boat lumbered out to sea and rocked all night as it was battered by a fierce storm and an 8 meter swell.
I slept on a bench on the top deck where empty tinnies rolled around the floor and the rain leaked from the ceiling. Empty. The chairs swiveled with the rocking boat. I’d step outside for a smoke occasionally. The waves cracking into the hull would make the whole vessel shudder and soon after a rain of spray from the impact would fall on me. I didn’t get much sleep.
I had a lot to think about.
Like, where to next?