Early Summer evening on the Gold Coast.
Shadows from the highrise towers stretch over the sand the coast is named for. The nor-easterly blows cool on the shade.
There’s not much going on in the surf, but a couple of tradies are having a beer near the showers and chatting about a cyclone havoc on an archipelago far beyond the horizon. It might send a fresh groundswell to these golden shores in the next few days.
Couples walk along the shoreline. Families begin packing up their beach towels to begin the journey home before the shadow reaches the water.
Some people are running. Some dogs are running around. Some guy is flying a kite. A kids sand castle is filled with water by a freak swell. It melts back into the bank.
I think of tall poppies. And Jimmy Hendrix. And the beer warming in my camera bag.
There’s a block with an old house on it for sale on the dunes. I sit on a table on the lawn facing the sea. The house is old, empty, and carries a style i don’t know the word for. A beach shack with fibro board and walls of rounded stones with heavy, rough grouting. Lots of glass jutting out everywhere. It’s a ghost destined for the bulldozer.
I imagine the fat slab of Cocaine Mansion that will be built where I’m sitting
The beer’s warm. I don’t mind.
It still feels like Spring.
Kicking sand on the embers of what was a very decent day. Surfing, Sandboarding, eating fish and chips by the water-tower. Lovely.
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.