Bay Leaves and Surf Skis - April 26th

April 26^th, Thursday, 8:24 am

I am at the Bay Leaf Café, sitting on a dried-sage-colored woven window seat in an open window with my feet in the sun. This is partly because I like sunshine, and partly because I’m still freezing. This place is utterly hidden by day; the dark shutters completely camouflage it into the surrounding wall, only a metal lettered sign reading “Bay Leaf” under the eaves and the graffiti of Yoda on the outer wall betraying a local café, open mornings only. I came in because I’d been told me they do the best drinks in town, and because exploring a secret is fun.

The barista who greeted me was the consummate barista; intense blue eyes, strikingly lean jawline, answers to my inquiry about soy chai just between snarky and welcoming. My chai arrived steamed loose-leaf in a white tea pot with a small empty cup on a saucer, a tea-strainer laid over the cup and a little white ceramic dish of honey nested inside the strainer. Hot and sweet and perfectly spiced, the soy balanced so perfectly with steam that it makes me realize I’ve never had soymilk properly steamed before. All in all, at the bottom of my first cup and letting the honey melt into the second, I am warmed and fortified enough to begin my morning tale.

It began at four thirty am, when the alarm clock trilled its funky tune. I had a date with destiny, a pre-dawn appointment with my dreams come to fruition. Ten to six am, I was to go out in a surf-ski. I planned to be early. Ten to six am? Child’s play! I will wake at four thirty, shower, breakfast, and arrive chipper as the morning sun just beginning to peek above the horizon like a freshly cracked egg.

At four thirty this morning, when the familiar ringing began, I stabbed at the face of my phone-clock with a groggy finger. I’m getting up, I told it, just let me lie here and adjust to the hour for half a minute. All right, as chai seeps into my bloodstream and memory clarifies, I realize that’s not exactly true. What I really thought was *&$%#^$!@*$  it’s cold. This was the first truly freezing morning we’ve had in Byron. I mean really, genuinely freezing. The girl at the French bakery L’Ultime said yesterday that she’d heard it was going to be the coldest morning yet, but gaaaah it was cold! I huddled under the blankets and shivered and reminded myself that a boat awaited.

At five twelve my eyes opened with a start. All thoughts of showering and breakfast flew out the window in the frigid morning air. Complementing my body and spirit on their fortitude and dedication and thanking them profusely for waking me up, I threw off my pajamas while cursing the air temperature, and dressed as quickly as possible in my athlete’s two-piece bathing suit, the leggings I’d VERY wisely purchased not an hour after hearing the words “…ten to six. Yes, a.m.,” a swim-shirt, and a pair of warm-up pants and the heaviest jacket I brought to Australia, thin cotton with sleeves and a hood. Braiding my hair still stiff with the sea-salt of yesterday’s swim and stuffing it under the hood of the sweater, my flip-flopped freezing toes and I, wearing this practical but unfashionable layering of clothes, hurried to the water.

I arrived at the beach front boat shed just as the lorikeets were beginning their morning wing-out as the first glimmers of pre-dawn light cascaded across the surface of the still sea. Unable to believe my luck, I got ready for my first surf-ski experience, dreaming about racing out across the bay.

I spent the next hour largely underwater.

Surf-skis are great watercraft. Long and narrow, amazing for balance and speed, they require a certain amount of muscular coordination to stay upright, a built skill set. If one foolishly ignores the narrowness of the craft and thinks one will be able to handle it like a kayak, one will wind up very, very wet. At six am on a breezy morning, repeated dunkings are a very chilly experience. Luckily, I am very stubborn and, so help me god, I finally, at long, long last watched the sun rise from a boat over the clear blue waters (and sometimes from under a boat, under the clear blue waters) of Byron Bay.

*************

Oh, good gracious, what a day. I realize now part of my motivation for keeping this blog is that I find myself living lifetimes in each day. If I don’t keep a record I get confused, sometimes frustrated wondering why things are taking so long when I only decided upon them hours or days before, sometimes overwhelmed by the scope of the things which have been, not having time to digest one experience before the next begins. Keeping a record of the chronological pace of things helps a bit.

Also, it’s more fun when you share.

So after the pre-dawn surf-skiing and writing at the Bay Leaf Café and the farmers market and making lunch, I wrote at home until about one, at which point I wrapped up and decided the day was much too sunny and perfect to not go back to the beach. My muscles were still quite tired, but I donned my bathing suit and grabbed my surfboard, just in case. The waves were perfect- tiny, clean, and clear, good for paddling about in looking for sea turtles, with some wave-riding just for fun. Inviting, I thought, braided my hair, set aside my book, unvelcroed  the ankle leash of the board, and walked to the water’s edge. GOD it was cold. The water that had felt warm this morning in comparison to the air now, in the full strength of the noonday sun, was practically icy. Nope! I happily retreated to my book, and read and watched the perfect blue of the sea, flipping over or turning around when I got too warm on one side, enjoying the decadent sun, eventually even propping up the surfboard to protect my face when it became too strong.

At last, I felt my internal clock ticking down; I’d promised myself a day in town as well, and I was properly roasted. Walking back through the tree-lined dunes and through the little strip of littoral rainforest on my path home, I was arrested by the sight of rainbow lorikeets feeding overhead on red tree blossoms. They’re the most beautiful birds, striking in their many colors, green wing-backs over multicolored beaks and bellies.

I arrived at home, changed again, and went into town, determined to find close-toed shoes for work friendlier to stand in eight hours at a time than my boots, and in search of string for some shell necklaces I’m making. While walking around town and getting hungry, I made an amazing discovery.

There’s  a place in town that sells $2.50 sushi rolls. In a town where everything is a gagillion dollars, this is a pretty good deal. I wondered how they afforded it. Stopping in for a Philly roll, I started chatting with the Asian girl who was cleaning an unfamiliar stainless steel counter-top machine, and was introduced in polite, halting English to The Sushi Roller. Who knew such a thing could be automated? Really, it’s brilliant economics.

I wandered and shopped, and got hungry again, so I stopped back for a seaweed roll and took it to the beach, happening on the Golden Hour. The sea had been postcard-picture perfect all day long, clear blue skies, crystal waters, so pretty it’s hard to look at for too long, especially when you don’t have anyone to turn to and complain that it’s too perfect to be real. As I stood there leaning on a fence over the dunes by the shore, soaking the Golden Hour in through my skin, I met a California ex-pat part-time surf photographer named Scotty, who was taking full advantage of working with the light… until his friends got back with kebabs, anyway.

The light began to fail, and I turned my feet toward my last errand of the it’s-my-day-off-do-all-the-fun-things day: The Balcony. A restaurant and bar with, you guessed it, a wrap-around balcony that I can see from where I work, I’ve often thought it would be a lovely spot for a sunset drink. I was waiting for the sun to go down far enough that they’d open the shades for the evening, in that magical moment before it gets dark and everything is cast in a beautiful rosy light. On my way to a martini, I was stopped in my tracks by nature’s happy hour: the lorikeets.

They flock together in the trees by the sea by the hundreds, and I was lucky enough to be passing as they gathered. Forgetting cocktails for the moment, I focused on the plumage of real birds, stilled awed and delighted by the natural spectacle that I’ve witnessed now at sunset by the sea many times.

Of course, if you will stop and watch the birds, sometimes you’ll get crapped on.

But that’s okay. It’s all part of being there.

 I stayed and watched the birds until they seemed content with their aerial antics for the evening. Checking the time I was delighted to find I hadn’t missed happy hour after all. I stopped off to de-bird myself and went to The Balcony.

Lychee martinis were up on happy hour. Listed in the menu as “a real lady pleaser,” let me report that this lady was totally pleased. I could see the sea from my seat outside behind the patch of railing I’d been eyeing from below, and the martini was delicious, served with two lychees on a stick. Unsure of the etiquette but deciding they looked tasty, I ate and enjoyed them.

The clouds were rose, the martini was amazing, I could see both where I work and the sea, I contentedly crossed Have a Drink at The Balcony off my List of Things To Do.

Happily juiced upon lychee and Cointreau, I arrived home to discover a new housemate. We are now an Aussie, a Japanese lady, an American, and a Korean. For the first time in ages, all of us were home and around the kitchen, so we sorted through the fridge and freezer and cupboards, made our new roommate some shelf space, and acquired some delectable leftovers from old roommates, and established a “community food” shelf.

Roommate situation sorted, I grabbed a jacket and went back outside, to the Green Garage. The night had become very cool, and can only be described as smelling like starlight. The air is so clear and the sky so dark blue and bright, the stars twinkle like St. Nick’s eyes. It makes you want to stop and watch all night, but you don’t because then you’d freeze, having so much tropical sun in your skin from earlier in the day contrasting with the falling chill of night. So I walked the block to the internet, blissfully looking at the stars.

Arriving at the outdoor internet a block from home, Google informed me that many people eat the garnishes with relish (no pun intended) and that Rachel Maddow thinks it’s a bad idea. While I generally think Rachel Maddow is mostly right about everything, I’m going with the majority here; if it looks tasty and is tasty, taste it!

It’s all of seven thirty pm now, and I’ve been writing in in my pajamas again for almost an hour, museli, yogurt, and green apple waiting on my side table. I feel great looking at the clock and the sky, having been up before the dawning and being tired at this hour, ready to curl up and cozy into inside as the sun has gone down in the world beyond.

My god, how lucky am I? Honestly, I swear, and I know it’s terrible but I confess it’s true, all this having fun and living the perfect life is seriously stressing me out around the edges. There’s such a sense of “oh my god, what an unreal opportunity, don’t screw it up, squeeze every second and last drop of perfection out of each and every blessed day, don’t take a single heartbeat for granted.” Day by day, moment by moment, really, I’m learning to take it easy and do things naturally, and making the most of each once-in-a-lifetime moment, living lifetimes in moments, and the spaces in between.

Life here is beautiful, it’s amazing, it’s exhausting. Like a puppy just out of the box on Christmas morning, scampering from one amazing new experience to the next all day, I’m going to curl up here and see if I can also perfect the art of resting, the taste of salt and lychee on my lips. 

Anzac Day - April 25th

Today was Anzac Day, a day commemorated in Australia in honor of the men and women who died in battle, a day to recall the atrocities of war, the sacrifice of the fallen, the broken promise of World War I being the War to End all Wars.

There was a four am service at the memorial gates, by the sports field two blocks from where I live.

I didn’t go.

I slept in instead, and when I woke up at a deliciously, decadently late hour, the sun was out in force. Grabbing my book and throwing on a bathing suit, I raced for the beach, and happily lay in the sand roasting the ceaseless rain out of my skin and bathing in the sunshine.

Around eleven, I’d been sunned enough to bear the thought of leaving the sand and I was pretty curious about this Anzac day thing. The Anzac cookie I’d had yesterday (a ginger biscuit affair) had been pretty tasty, and beyond that it seemed to be culturally and locally a big deal. There was supposed to be a parade down the main street at eleven, and I wanted to see what was what. So I walked in to town and kept my eyes open.

As I walked, I passed yet another sign for "Anzac Day 2 Up" outside the Hotel Great Northern and interrupted the man setting up the outdoor tables, feeling perhaps a sense of kinship as his long striped apron was the same as the one I wear at work. I asked him first, if he had a second, and second, what the heck this "2 Up" thing was. Outside every bar in town for a week there have been signs, manufactured, hand written, chalked and markered, everyone was about it. I’d even had a Kiwi ex-pat shop-owner tell me weeks ago to stop by the Northern and watch 2 Up on Anzac day, although being a Kiwi she didn’t know what it was either. The aproned man outside the Northern kindly explained that it was a game the “diggers,” or guys in the trenches in WWI, used to play, involving betting on whether a set of coins would land both heads up or both tails up. The “spinner” throws the coins, the betters bet, the referees make sure everyone pays up, simple enough. According to my informal Anzac educator, this used to be hugely popular in bars and other establishments around Australia, but since there was no way for the house to take a cut and the government a tax profit, it was banned. It’s allowed now only once a year, on Anzac day, and the public houses take full advantage. 

I thanked him for the information and kept walking, and pretty soon spotted the crowd around the memorial gates. Wandering over, still wearing shorts and a t-shirt and carrying my beach bag, I was happy to find the crowd a mix of people, many dressed as casually as myself, others in dress clothes, and some in uniforms. Not feeling my attire was disrespectful, I entered the crowd, a smallish throng of maybe seventy people, and listened to the speech. A decorated older man delivered the address to the veterans seated on two rows of folding chairs, side tents of other dressed-up people seated on more folding chairs, a small Anglican choir with a keyboard, a row of older flag-bearers in uniforms and very young cadets at parade rest around the memorial, and one man in slacks leaning back against the wall, an old fashioned bugle in his hand. The rest of the audience informally gathered around in the barricaded street, some with dogs on leashes, others leaning against the folding picnic table where a sign said the local scouting group had been selling soft drinks. I was standing next to a very, very old fashioned Red Holden that gleamed like it was fresh off the production line, piloted by a very elderly lady in an excellent hat. I don’t know who she was, but I suspect she may have been a WWII veteran. Either way, she and her chariot radiated respect and understated panache.

I hadn’t intended to stay, but the speech drew me in. Apparently a vet himself, the man spoke calmly and plainly, describing war as one group of young men who don’t want to be somewhere trying to kill another group of young men who equally don’t want to be there. It was a good address, and well delivered.

The ceremony proceeded as such things will, ending with the singing of the Australian National Anthem, Advance Australia Fair, which I admit I found totally and utterly charming.

Australians all let us rejoice,
For we are young and free;
We’ve golden soil and wealth for toil;
Our home is girt by sea;
Our land abounds in nature’s gifts
Of beauty rich and rare;
In history’s page, let every stage
Advance Australia Fair.
In joyful strains then let us sing,
Advance Australia Fair.
Beneath our radiant Southern Cross
We’ll toil with hearts and hands;
To make this Commonwealth of ours
Renowned of all the lands;
For those who’ve come across the seas
We’ve boundless plains to share;
With courage let us all combine
To Advance Australia Fair.
In joyful strains then let us sing,
Advance Australia Fair.



The ceremony concluded. As I walked back down the street I ran into the property manager of my house-share, wearing a jacket decorated to the hilt. He turns out to be a history buff and military-remembrance club member coming from several generations of decorated military service. At my curious prompting he told me the stories affiliated with the medals and insignia, including one which was a peace medal given to all Australian schoolchildren after World War I as a promise that this terrible war had ended all wars. Poignantly, this medal was pinned to a jacket with rows of service medals from World Wars I and II. 

He gave me a sprig of rosemary, which people wear pinned to their lapels on Anzac day, and told me I really ought to go check out 2 Up. I did, later, passing through the Beachie on my way back from the beach that afternoon. Two men in jackets stand in the middle of a square of floor. One guy balances three coins on a stick and tosses them in the air. If the coins don't go over the "spinner's" head or if they touch the lines marking the square the toss is invalid and redone. Betters hold the tenner they're wagering on top of their heads, which quickly becomes amusing in a public house where winnings are quickly turned to beer. 

Cheers, Australia, to Anzac Day. 

Sunrise, Boat Hope and Butternut Squash - April 24th

I woke up at five thirty this morning, hearing the lorikeets beginning their morning wing-out (tangent later) and feeling my knees sore from work yesterday. I got up, brushed my teeth, had a drink of water, and realized I was awake enough to stay up. So I grabbed a tub of yogurt left over from dinner last night with half an apple already sliced into it, tossed in a handful of oatmeal, grabbed my purse and computer (maybe I'd actually make it to the Internet this time!) and headed for the beach to watch the sunrise. The morning was blue and beautiful, with high gray clouds blanketing the sky.

Jonson Street was just beginning to wake up, the delivery trucks and trash collectors and street sweepers for the early places going about their morning routines, the dawn in Byron I’ve become accustomed to on my morning walks to work. Except this morning, I passed the arcade of shops and went straight to the sea.

I sat on the rocks and watched, and it was beautiful. I watched a few early morning kayakers heading out into the sea, and felt very jealous. I need a boat. I need a boat like I need groceries. Determined again on this score, I made a few phone calls home and watched the sky lighten and waited for one of my favorite Internet cafes to open. While I was chatting on the phone, one of the guys paddling a boat came back in from the water. I got off the phone quickly and hurried over to accost him. He was very friendly, and told me to come back around nine or ten and talk to the Man in the Office in a way that gives me great hope.  

And so now I’m sitting here at the Fresh Café, with a cup of soy hot chocolate with very exciting foam art on top and a fresh blackberry maple almond muffin, about to finally! successfully get online. I’ll be here for a while catching up on my list, and in a few hours I’ll go speak to the Man in the Office, and with any luck, soon be headed out to sea.

Dolphins and Julian Rocks and Whales, here I come!

… 12:38 pm

VICTORY is mine! At ten to six am Thursday morning, I’m going out in a surfski! We’ll take things from there, but it looks like I might be able to arrange a boat share. First things first – Thursday morning, out to sea with me! YAHOO!!

The day became quite rainy, so now I’m cozied in at home doing laundry and watching Beauty and the Beast while the butternut squash steams and the eggs boil for my pumpkin-seed bread and mesclun salad sandwich.

God I love life.  

A Detour and a Fish Hawk - April 23rd

Monday.

Seven am, and I’m at work running like a madwoman, scrubbing and sorting and organizing and cleaning. I get off work at four after a good day with colleagues, chatting and joking around the continual roll of work. (Plus, my boss bought me lunch, the steak pie I’d been eyeing at the French bakery).

I had planned to go home and pick up my computer and come back down the street to use the Internet. I hadn't posted any of the blog entries I'd written, and was sadly behind on emails, some of which I really wanted to write. Well, maybe just a quick peek at the beach, first. I’ll walk home that way, I told myself. I walked up the block from work to the parking lot and park area that looks over the beach. Resolutely, I turned my steps toward home. Well, maybe I’ll just stop for one second and look at the water and breathe. Okay, actually, I’m going to climb down and walk in the sand, but toward home. Hey, what are those seagulls doing? It looks like a bunch of fish have gotten trapped around the base of those rocks by the surf, and they’re diving and fishing there. That’s very cool to watch. I wonder if I can see the fish if I walk over that way and oh my god, that’s an osprey, god what a beautiful bird. Hey there seems to be quite an afternoon aquatic afternoon tea going on out here; maybe it will attract the dolphins! I’ll just climb up there and have a look at what the osprey is looking at.

Long story short, I stayed on the rocks for hours. I watched the birds diving and eating fish, saw the osprey (or fish hawk, as they are also called) catch a huge silver fish that flapped like mad then went rigid in its claws, saw a homo sapiens successfully surf fishing with a line and rod, and half a dozen crabs scuttling about, getting smashed by the surf and scuttling right back up the barnacle-covered rocks. The sun set, the wind was strong over the water, and it was gorgeous.

Okay, now to home and a quick shower, then to the Internet.

Monday night in Byron in the off-season is pretty slow. There was only one wireless spot still open by seven, and they’d moved on to their very expensive dinner menu. Somewhat discouraged, I turned back toward home, stopping by the glaringly florescent Wicked Travel backpacker center to use half an hour of free Internet on their not-so-speedy computers and checked in with the essentials of the outside world until the connection speed drove me mad, and rethought dinner. My path took me to Woolies for high-protein organic berry yogurt, a jazz apple happily on special, and a pack of Wallaby Bites, a locally produced cereal and nut compote dipped in chocolate. Now I’m home happily munching, listening to Sinatra, and about to dive into my book, The Porpoise Watcher, a naturalist’s memoirs bought from a local second-hand and swap book shop.

I suppose I'll post these entries someday.

PS- The cockroaches. Still a bummer on principle, but seem to be avoiding my toothbrush now that I’ve stuffed a Clorox wipe into the bottom of the mug. Hypocritically, I find the zillions of tiny lizards climbing the walls very cool. Practically speaking they’re probably carriers of much nastier stuff (read: salmonella) than roaches, but they’re SMALLER than the roaches, and somehow the tiny sticky feet are totally adorable.

PPS- The lighthouse’s beam sweeping over the tropical trees under the stars in my backyard is never going to get old. I’d probably sleep out there if the mosquitos didn’t drive me back indoors.

A Misguided Roman - April 22nd

Today began, as so many mornings do, just before dawn, getting ready to go to work. I went to work. I worked. It was good, and as usual quite a workout. One of my co-workers made me a fantastic sandwich for lunch with baguette from our local French bakery and the supplies being in a kitchen affords; amazing simple high quality local and imported ingredients. 

I finished work at three and changed into the running clothes I’d packed, put my essentials (wallet, cell phone – in a drybag – keys, flashlight, hairtie, lipbalm, pen) into a new running backpack. It’s made by Roman, I bought it yesterday, and I was pretty excited to take it for a test run. It felt great sitting on my back while walking around, it looked good, I felt good about it, I’m often spot on about that sort of thing.

Drat.

I'm pretty sure I'd have to have been six feet tall for the pack to properly strap to my torso and not bounce everywhere. I couldn’t run with it at all, except by removing the backpack and holding it in my hand. Luckily it was very light, so that was easy to do, but it turned much of the trek into a hike which, after being up and running since before sunrise, wasn’t too hard to swallow.

I hiked up toward the lighthouse, watching the sea and looking for dolphins. I crossed the two beaches and turned off for the Captain Cook Lookout halfway up the pathway o’ endless stairs through the coastal rainforest which cradles the bluff on which the lighthouse sits. The surf has been huge the last few days. The lookout juts far enough out into sea and the rocks surrounding it are low enough to the waterline that the crashing breakers of waves traveling in from the open Pacific are spectacular. I stood a while, then hopped up on the rail and sat a while, then sat and watched a while longer, drinking in the sea (and watching for dolphins). No cetaceans surfaced, but I did spot an absolutely massive sea turtle. For half a second I thought it was a seal, being of apparent similar size and a sort of brownish color. It took two breaths and lingered at the surface a moment, then disappeared back into the blue.

Sunset was stunning as usual, and I was starting to feel tired. I thought I might go home, head back into town, maybe find the Internet or read my book, blah blah blah. I was not even up a third of the steps back  up to the main trail before my feet turned themselves toward the lighthouse.

You never know, the whales might be early. And the view from there is always a sight to see. 

By the time I turned back toward home the mists were rising to the south over Tallows beach and clouds of it were forming through the tops of the trees in the rainforest that surround Byron Bay. The lights of the town from a distance were becoming hazy with the night mists of the sea rolling in, and the stars began to burn through the gathering twilight. It’s very near the dark of the moon, but the sky is so clear and the light pollution so low that Venus shone a silver path across the sea, as brightly if narrower than the shimmering reflection of the absent moon. 

The night gathered and the mists rose and the stars came through in force as I made my way back home. 

(*Note: Luckily for me, the Roman was returned with no problems, and will hopefully go on to make some tall person very happy.) 

Pros and Cons - April 21st

Pros of Living in the Tropics

• Tropical ocean
• Tropical weather: sunshine and greenery everywhere as far as the eye can see, even when standing on top of a mountain
• Laid back lifestyle 
• Coastal Rainforest
• Early sunrises over the sea, late sunsets over the mountains, both beautiful
• Watching a band perform by the sea with happy hour local frothy foamy beer
• Walking one block to the sea after work, sitting on a rock under two frond-y trees and watching the surf roll in while eating a late dinner, then scrambling down the rocks to the sand, kicking off your shoes and walking into the water, looking at the brilliant stars twinkling overhead in the navy bright-darkness of the sky while seagulls play in a nocturnal aerial dance, the white of their wings and bellies illuminated by the streetlamps and passing headlights of the cars in the parking lot over the beach, the gyrations of the white lighthouse on the distant hill ensconced in rainforest looking over the beach, a guardian of life and faithful watchman by the sea, talking to the sweet German backpacker who’s also wading in the surf, a bottle of liquor in her hand although she’s no more than friendly drunk, inviting you to come join a gaggle hanging out by the giant sand sculpture of Puff the Magic Dragon who is complete with burning nostrils by the rocks under the trees, and hurrying home to beat a huge tropical electrical storm swelling on the horizon, going to sleep in a lovely home by the sea … for a few hours, anyway, before work the next morning by the sea, to begin it all again...

Cons of Living in the Tropics

•           Finding a huge cockroach climbing on your toothbrush. AGAIN.

Rainbows and Folk Rock - April 20th

(Blog: Continued from The Adventures of Ben and Karen, a joint adventure blog with my brother)

It was a dark and stormy night.

Actually, it still is. That’s why I’m sitting here, cross legged on the bed in my pajamas, recording my most recent adventures, kicking off the blog Where in the World is Karen Eileen Carmen.

First port of call: Byron Bay, New South Wales, Australia

Until very recently, this adventure has been a joint venture with my little brother (okay, okay, so he’s like ten feet taller than me, I’m still the older!), recorded on the blog theadventuresofbenandkaren.blogspot.com.

It was an amazing adventure.

Yesterday afternoon, Ben boarded a bus headed for home to continue his adventures in the Northern Hemisphere. He’s been in continuous transit since he left Byron at just after 5 pm yesterday which would put him now, at 9:30 pm today… just about halfway there. I walked with him to the bus stop yesterday dressed for a run. Don’t get me wrong; I’m excited for both of us, Ben for his continuing adventures and me for mine. But it’s sad to see this chapter come to an end. And so I did the only sensible thing to do, and went for a very long run.

My feet took me to the sea.

I ran the blocks through town from the bus stop to the shore and across the loose packed sand, carrying my flipflops in one hand and a flashlight in the other. The surf was huge, making the serious surfers happy and the sunset spectacular. I ran and watched the sunset and the sea, headed for Captain Cook Lookout, a jut of land over Little Wategos Beach, officially kicking off my Cetacean Spotting Season. Rumor has it that the dolphins like to hang around Little Wategos. And records have it that the humpback whales coming north from Antarctica to breed will be passing by Cape Byron, the easterly most point of the Australian continent, migrating from May through November. The first of the whales have already been spotted from the lighthouse, and so this is largely my objective here in Byron; spot the whales and watch the dolphins. Inauspiciously, I saw no cetaceans or large sea life of any kind on my run yesterday, but it was a beautiful night all the same. Warm and clear (at long, long last! There has been oodles, buckets, and scads of rain these last few weeks), the waters around the lookout point darkened and, after a bit of a chat with a visiting Colorado-native-former-wrangler-computer-professional, I ran the rest of the way to the Cape Byron Lighthouse to watch the stars.

As day fades to night here, the stars gleam through the navy blue sky, its colors rich over the sea. First Venus shines through to herald the night, and the others follow suit. Soon the Milky Way shines through, a vast carpet of shimmering light so brilliant it seems you could walk on it, if only you could turn your feet to the sky.

It was a gorgeous run.

I found myself back home and fell asleep.

At eight this morning I was at work, but not before walking up to the beach and watching a few minutes of a surfing contest taking place between the Main Beach and the Wreck, our local shipwreck. Ben and I spoke to a very informed older volunteer at the lighthouse a few weeks ago who knew everything there was to know. Apparently the shipwreck in question was a courier of goods and staples between Byron Bay and Sydney back before the roads and railways were good enough to make transport efficient by land. It got caught in a huge storm by the pier and smashed. The locals saved the crew, but taxes hadn’t been paid to the land authorities on the parts of the ship that came from overseas, since the ship had never been brought in to land. They wouldn’t permit the salvage without collecting the tax, and so there The Wreck remains to this day, providing a haven for fish, a great surf break for surfers, and a bit of the tiller sticking up out of the water that local kids climb on. (A few years back, a couple of high school girls played hooky from school, swam out to the Wreck, and were treed up on the tiller by sharks who circled below until they were rescued by the surf lifesaving boat, but not before being plastered all over the east coast evening news! This is in no way a deterrent to continued climbing on the Wreck, or to Ben and myself snorkeling there. But we kept a weather eye out just in case.)

Anyway, I worked until about four today, then knocked off and headed for the Beachie (The Beach Front Hotel) to see a Melbourne duo called The Pierce Brothers. They played a set at open mic night at the Buddha Bar on Wednesday night, and totally rocked my socks. They started tonight at five, which was perfect, because I had a very important post-work errand to run:

Project Giant Umbrella.

Back in the day, when it was still summer here and it rained in between bouts of fierce sunshine, I bought a little four dollar folding plaid-patterned umbrella. It was whimsical, it was plucky, it wasn’t the sturdiest but it had heart, and kept me dry enough… for a time. Then the Season of the Rains arrived in force, weeks and weekends and weeks of endless deluge, with days on end without enough sun to properly dry one’s soaked clothes. Now I understand why tropical natives don’t wear much. It’s not just because of the heat; it’s because you’d NEVER dry out, and soggy pants are not a thing to be borne for long.

And so I went to the Rainbow Shop (guess what they sell- on t-shirts, headbands, wall hangings, umbrellas, you name it), and bought an umbrella the size of a tent. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit, but it’s large, and sunny, and many colors, and most importantly of all, keeps the raindrops from falling on my head, or anywhere within a several foot radius of my nice dry self.

So, umbrella in hand, I went back to the Beachie, bought a happy hour XXXX Gold (my favorite Aussie beer) on tap, perched myself at a bar table on the outdoor patio with an umbrella only slightly bigger than mine overhead keeping the storm off my table and, more importantly, off my beer. From my perch, I could see the sea to my left, the huge rolling breakers catching the colors of the darkening sky under the stormy yellow clouds, and the stage to my right, where the Pierce Brothers were setting up. 

Two boys from Melbourne, the Pierce Brothers are a musical force of nature. Sitting on barrels turned into stools, one plays the guitar like it’s a part of his body. The other plays the guitar sometimes. And the harmonica. And the didgeridoo. And percussion, sometimes on a bongo drum, sometimes with his hands and sometimes with stick, and sometimes drums on his brother’s guitar, with his hands or the sticks. And sometimes, most amazing of all, he wraps an arm around his brother’s neck and they BOTH play the same guitar, or he holds the harmonica for his brother to play (while he continues with the guitar) while ALSO playing the didgeridoo. Folk/rock and definitely Australian, their sound and energy are a joy to watch as well as to hear. 

After an amazing performance, and a dinner of beer and free happy hour bar snacks (read: meat pie and sausage roll. Aussies know what they are about with beef.), I had a very rainy walk home. But that’s okay; I carry a smile on my lips and a song in my heart and a big flippin’ rainbow umbrella over my head.