A low
dark cloud stretched across the Australian Day long weekend, one perfectly
mirroring my mood. The end of the road had been reached and I was unravelling. I
couldn't do this dual life anymore even if I wanted to; it was obvious that
every softly-softly approach, the one that I'd been peddling for the last two
and a half years, had spectacularly failed to get me to where I wanted to go. My
simultaneous city/country life was crashing down around me and I was going down
with it.
So I
called a time out. I was taking a breather, making a master plan for 2013 (one which
didn't include the word 'cope' as in 'this year I will cope with the long-distance
travel by using my time more productively on the train'). In perfect
synchronicity, just as I was tying my laces to do a runner from my own life, I
ran headlong into the leaving date for our long-anticipated summer holiday.
I was
yearning for this away time, ten glorious days to read, eat, sleep and swim. I
wanted to get up at dawn, go down to the beach and watch the sun turn the sky a
streaky gelato coloured vision of lemon, pink and lavender. I could live on
that morning light; it's a magnificent vision of heaven.
Even
though I had prayed for this holiday over that bleak long weekend, the weather
gods proved unyielding in their cruelty. They nearly de-railed us before we had
started sending thick clouds, wild winds and heavy rain our way, a legacy of
the weather which was flooding Queensland. Never doubting for a minute, despite
all the evidence to the contrary, the Country Mouse continued to pack the car
with the utmost certainty. As we pulled out of the driveway the unyielding rain
was accompanied by a soundtrack of thunder. Just perfect for a camping holiday.
The
Country Mouse can be an enigma. Sometimes I have to jolly him out of a sombre
glass-half-empty frame of mind, at other times he is positivity itself. "A
week of rain", I howled. "It'll clear", he countered. I held my
phone up showing the grim Bureau of Meteorology 7-day forecast - solid rain.
The CM was unperturbed and became a one-man cheer squad on our trip north to
Crescent Head. In those moments when the volume of water hammering down on us eased
slightly he beamed "Look, it's clearing". It wasn't.
Despite
the conditions the CM sorted our campsite like a professional and for the first
time that night I heard the sound of tent rain. I know a man loves a woman brimming
with questioning doubt and who am I to disappoint, so I peppered him. "Is
the tent going to leak?" "What will we do if the campsite floods?"
"Can we sleep in the car?" "Can we go to a motel?" "If
the power board gets wet will we get electrocuted?" And still the rain
kept coming.
Crescent
Head is loved by both of us, but we had no joint history there and this was the
holiday where we were going to make the place our own. I first visited almost 40
years ago and remember scribbling in my teenage diary 'crystal Crescent', as it
had the clearest water I'd ever seen. This was in the days before the deep
ocean outfalls cleared Sydney's beaches and an innocent swim could easily turn
into a frighteningly up close and personal encounter with one of the dreaded
'Bondi cigars'. My skin still crawls with the memory.
Crescent
Head is time-standing still, country town meets coastal idyll, unpretentious
and quirky. By some miracle in the decades since my first visit more has stayed
the same than changed. The surf break is still there and due to a resurgence of
(retro) 70's fashion the surfers look just like they did in the real 1970s.
Killick Creek still runs into the ocean at the southern end of the beach and
the cunjevoi still stink at low tide. The Crescent Head Country Club remains
wonderfully unrenovated with bands still rocking the place on a Saturday night.
Nothing could make me relinquish my Crescent Head love affair no matter how
long we’ve been apart.
But
back to the rain. We took day trips north (where it was also raining) and found
places that didn't excite us, like Grassy Head which had a strange Deliverance-type atmosphere, and a town
that did, Scotts Head. I loved South West Rocks with its dark green stands of Norfolk
pines, cosmopolitan shopping strip and two lovely beaches. Where else can you swim
over the top of a sunken ferry (sent to the bottom decades ago during a heavy
storm), then lie on the sand and look at the ruins of a colonial stone prison
on a nearby headland? SWR, we'll be back.
I'm all
for paying your dues and four days in the weather gods decided we had paid in
full. We'd obviously done our penance; a stretch of blue sky appeared and
stayed for more than a couple of hours. It was just in time as I was seriously
casting about the caravan park for a small child to sacrifice to appease those
same weather gods. We ventured out.
Killick
Creek was a muddy hue as the flood water which had flushed out the Belmore
Swamp behind the beach joined other storm-laden muck and poured into its water
way. Dirt and debris from the creek swirled into the ocean turning the waves a
creepy colour even way out to sea and leaving a disconcerting brown stain down
the sand. Even the white bibs of the local pelicans had a tea-stained look.
Despite
chanting 'crystal Crescent, crystal Crescent' in my now water-logged mind it
didn't get any clearer, so we drove south toward Point Plomber in search of the
clean waves we'd been dreaming about. It was too easy. In about 20 minutes we
were undone by the most gob-smackingly beautiful beach with wide sand, the
dreamed of crystal water (the chanting had worked), a large rock pool big
enough to swim in and at each end of the long stretch of beach deserted grassy
headlands.
Did I
mention we had all this glory to ourselves? Had we had travelled unknowingly
into one of those Qantas Australia ads, the ones with the deserted perfect
beaches, and that choir of kids singing 'I still call Australia home'.
Beautiful one day, perfect the next? Move over Queensland and go the Crescent
coast!
We were
stunned. Where were we? We'd simply been cruising toward Point Plomber, saw a
small modest sign which said simply 'Beach' with an arrow, parked and followed
a track. Consulting our very inadequate maps we figured out we were at the southern
end of Goolawah Beach and that this bit had its own curious name, Racecourse.
The next day we did it all again, and the day after and after again. Every day
finding yet another beach with another quirky name - Delicate Nobby, Barrie's
Beach and Big Hill Beach.
Had we
passed through some portal and gone straight to nirvana? I swept my arms around
our newly discovered paradise. "This", I declared "is what
heaven will look like". I was not only joyful, but soaring. The rain had
stopped, perfection on earth had been found and one of my mantras 'Don't let
age define you' was screaming in my head. It always inspires me to think about
all the things still waiting to be done in life, like...nude boogie boarding!
I had
my purple board, I was au natural and
I was off. My reverie was broken by the Country Mouse's urgent call "Bluebottle!"
A near disaster was narrowly averted as I steered just clear of an ugly
encounter with a large bluebottle trailing a frighteningly large tentacle. By
curious co-incidence I had just read about the latest research into bluebottle
stings, making me informed but not prepared, and sadly therefore no less likely
to be stung. So much for knowledge equalling power.
Pioneer
bluebottle research from the University of Newcastle and the Calvary Mater
Hospital which took place on Newcastle beaches was finalised seven years ago,
yet bizarrely has had almost no publicity since. It proved that the most
effective pain relief from bluebottle venom is water hotter than 40 degrees C.
If you
have ever been stung by a bluebottle you know you need never go there again;
and if you have ever been treated for the sting you know that everything
formerly done - dabbing the area with vinegar, washing it in cold water and
even rubbing sand on the site actually makes the pain worse. Those kids wailing
after stinger treatment "It's hurting more!" (you might have been one
of them) were telling the truth. The problem with the solution is the
environment. Bluebottles, ocean water and the beach - and water hotter than 40
degrees C? All you can hope is that some English tourists (not backpackers) are
nearby with a handy flask of tea.
In the
middle of our out-of-this-world happiness the Country Mouse had to briefly
leave, called back to Newcastle to do a couple of gigs as a guitar god, and
that’s in a roundabout way how I came to have my own close encounter with God –
or at least some of his chosen people. One sunny afternoon I took myself for a
walk and passed by a Crescent Head institution, a double garage facing the main
road to the ocean which has a large wooden sign with the words 'Christian
Surfers', the letters being made of pieces of twisted bamboo.
It's
been there as long as I can remember and I've always been intrigued by it. The
roller doors to this Christian HQ are never open and I’ve often wondered what
had happened to the surfers. Did they give up their mission, abandon their
faith, or get taken by a shark off the point at Little Nobbys? Not so.
On that
lovely afternoon, much to my delight, the roller doors were up and a sign out
the front announced 'All welcome' to the launch of a book Ground Swell about the Christian surfer movement. What an
opportunity. Inside the roller doors a club house was revealed, it was
unpretentiously shabby chic with a fridge, bunk beds, funky signs, old
mismatched chairs and a rickety table.
A big
barbeque was in progress and copies of Ground
Swell were out for sale. The book was an impressive production and documented
the Christian surfers’ story which originated unsurprisingly at Cronulla Beach,
God's own country, in the 1970s. There are now lots of branches across
Australia but not, I noted, at my Sydney home beach Bronte; in fact there is no
Christian surfer outpost anywhere in the godless Eastern Suburbs.
The
launch had drawn a big crowd and they showed true Christian charity in their
warmth and welcome to those of us who were strangers amongst them. I was
thrilled when I saw a merchandising stand, if there ever was a group who had
the moral rights to a Jesus walking on water t-shirt it was them, but they’d
missed the opportunity, along with the chance to do a women’s surf wear line
featuring St. Mary Star of the Sea. Still I left all warm and fuzzy, my life
was wonderful, I was in Crescent heaven.