East Coast Antics | Scrapbook #2

i.

The essential stop before hitting the eight hour long road ahead: coffee. We approached a hole in the wall that was rated 4.5 stars on Google, where a large dalmatian was waiting patiently. He sniffed us hello, and then stood on his rear legs, taller than us, and placed his front paws on the counter. He appeared to be a regular. When he left, our coffees in the making, two more wagging tails approached. They offered friendly sniffs, their paws pattering on concrete. The coffee was good.

ii.

Walking through the gloomy streets of an unheard of town: a creepy window display, a man asking for directions like we knew any more than him, a deserted pie shop. The air was clearer up there, away from the city. But it was cold, and we laughed because we couldn’t help ourselves and because it kept us warm. 

iii.

I caught the tram to the harbour at night. Stepping off, through the gaps of the station building, I caught a view of the lights. A sudden wave of awe, of recognition at the sight of it and the knowledge that I was there to see it. The constellations of the bridge, the iconic curves. The water danced with them and I felt like dancing too. 

iv.

We set our alarms for early. Clambered out of bed and chucked on the swimwear we’d left out the night before. Getting in the car, we saw the beginning of sunrise, and found our energy. Down at the beach, the sky was burning. We admired how each colour was reflected on the glaze of the wet sand. Despite the early hour, the water welcomed us like a bath. At first I was hesitant – the waves were so powerful. But I watched as others ahead of me evaded the power of them by diving beneath, their feet appearing and disappearing as the wave broke into foam. I breathed deep, felt the rhythm of the water, and dived too. I could hear the bubbles racing above my head, the crest breaking over me, but I was safe from the current that unnerved me. I broke above the water to the glorious sky that was the surface. And I dived again.

v. 

We walked to the beach past the long stretch of vibrantly painted rocks. Some celebrated, others memorialised. They were beautiful, heartfelt, harrowing. They continued, telling us stories with each step.

vi.

I made a simple but nutritious lunch. Poured hot water over couscous. Chopped cucumber, tomatoes, avocado. I stirred through spinach and chickpeas and seasoned everything with fresh lemon juice and cayenne. A spoonful of hummus and the meal was ready. Outside, I sat in the sunshine, searching my book for where I left off. Behind the spine, there was a thud and a flash of something fast. I moved the book to find a kookaburra standing on the table in front of me, tucking into my lunch. He grabbed thick chunks of avocado, and began to gobble them down in front of me, knocking his head back and throwing the pieces in the air just to catch them again. I was frozen at first. I didn’t try to push him away – up close I could see that his beak was long and sharp and I didn’t need that any closer to me. Instead I tried to reclaim my dignity in front of my audience of fellow backpackers who were scattered around the area. I told the bird off, reminded him that it was my lunch. “It looked so good!” I whined at him. Someone else piped up, “Clearly he thought so too.”

I tried to take it as a compliment. 

vii.

In the golden sunshine we walked along the beach, talking about ourselves and travel and people we love. The water was clear and the sand was silk beneath our feet. We walked without considering distance, reached the Pass and climbed the lookout. At the top, a huge trail of surfers was revealed, paddling out over the waves, on some pilgrimage they instinctively understood. We watched, mesmerised, no end goal in sight.