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.