Byron
I’m sitting in the shack in Broken Head again. The walls have been painted a crisp white and different rope formations hang on the walls.
It’s warm. My back is burnt. My friends have gone back to Sydney in Connie the van. Again I didn’t go with them.
We drove up Thursday in the hail. Not just any hail but the kind of hail that left us aquaplaning across the highway, white sheets in our eyes, pulling into the Maccas carpark in a random town and waiting in the congestion fueled panic with everyone else. We played in it in bare feet for novelty reasons. By the time we reached the Northern Rivers it was sunny.
The waves were perfect.
We surfed our arms into two minute noodles and ate more noodles and drank red wine with coco cola at Asia Joes three nights in a row. We had one night at Thai Lucy, they wouldn’t give me a discount for being called Lucy.
We met a guy called Damo in the carpark of a cafe on the corner and stayed up until 4 am in a random garage with people I’d never met before.
The waves were still perfect Saturday. We stayed out late and I saw the guy that peed in my cupboard a few months ago. He was wearing a tiger suit and had cut his hair. I didn’t even recognize him but then he brought up the pee incident. And how I’d embarrassed him. And how I’m doing it again.
We swam in a waterfall yesterday. There were big fish in the bubbles and I couldn’t stop imagining a Great White launching itself over the cascade to land on top of us.
Lizzie Roach Pic
Anyway, then I tried to go home but instead booked a flight for a couple days later, with that sickly feeling of knowing I’ve spent too much money sitting in the bottom of my gut.
It’s one year today since we landed in Mozambique, me feeling like there was a hernia in my stomach and hiking all over Maputo looking for the Tanzanian embassy then not going to Tanzania anyway. Eight weeks until I fly out again.
x
