4. The West Coast
The inland water sparkles, the wet sand bubbles. Through the binoculars I see a sea eagle take flight, the near full moon shrouded in hues of red and yellow. Through the binoculars, now focused, the sea looks sexy, waves crashing and rolling, the opaque blue on stark white. Through the binoculars the wet sand is vivid with colours, blues to pinks to yellows. We collect shell, Ash inspects coral. The sun is a red dot, the red cliffs glow. The mozzies come and they destroy us.
The windscreen was so murky, the plains so flat. We were empty when we pulled in Sandfire and it was $95 to fill my tank. $95! Losing half the tank in the next hundred k’s makes me certain to get a new car. We set up camp. The bursting moon over the sand, the sound of the waves, the creek, Ash’s accent, a belly full of tuna, avo, tomato and cucumber. Swag ready, I’m ready.
It’s no pants Tuesday. In the afternoon, Ash and I eat at Sophie’s home in a Port Hedland caravan park. The top of my legs peel when I scratch them. We each take a shower and pack the esky. I exchange peculiar messages on Instagram. We take off half hour before sunset, straight into Road Train land. Road train after SUPER road train for hours on end. They blink at us and I overtake and when we do, we think them grand. On our right, the full moon shines boldly. On our left, the sun’s set makes colours play in the sky; pindan to white sand to blue ocean. We come to an empty rest stop and work out the distant moving lights are a mining train.
Last night we slept to the sounds of passing trucks. It was a peaceful sleep until a fly’s buzz woke me at first light. The morning is hazy. Ash and I hang at the entrance to the rest stop where we’d slept and watch the road trains. At the next petrol station there’s dust everywhere.
My feet dangle amongst fish in green water filmed by leaves and sunscreen. When one gets courage enough to nibble my toe I squeal in shock. These are the moments I thought would be most beautiful. These are the moments I feel most beautiful. I smell, my hair still salty, outfit unplanned, pindan legs, bites over my ankles.
There was before, now there is after.
In the sun, it’s fucking scorching. Down here, it’s perfect. The gorge is cold, the sound of water falling. March flies bite, a red dragonfly lands on my leg. I’m against the rocks reading a book. In the water I look to Mars coloured rocks dotted with couples all cuddly and content.
We were lying on green grass, corellas playing with sticks and wrestling each other, when I deleted him. Then we’re driving and we stop for a photo and Esmerelda won’t start. We hail down a mine worker, I’m not wearing pants again but my shirt is long. The mine worker jump starts us and we drive until we’re at a roadhouse with other cars and road trains and the Aussie, French and Belgian guys we met at Karijini. We sleep in the middle of a grass area. I wear the oil rag top to sleep.
It sounds like a car, but it’s the wind across the abandoned town. Most graves were people in their 20s, 30s and 40s. I’m at the camp on the river now. There’s an old table against a white gumtree and my stretcher swag is on a questionable angle. There is wind. There is no one else. There are itchy bites on my legs. There is dust crawling through my hair and in my skin. I play an out-of-tune guitar and have a peanut butter muesli bar for dinner. I realise it’s Friday night. I pee under the stars, get in my swag, and try sleep.
I practice patience with my roof racks and an overloaded car.
The bad mood bit early, which I tamed, but then the road kept going and going and it was boring and people are boring and I just wanted an ice cream and I HATE the drive so much that I scream loudly in the car.
It’s six months since I left Adelaide.
Where will I be in thirty days? Creeping closer to that place in my head, where I allow myself to be myself.
Letting go of perfection, fear of failure.
My thoughts, too many, they’re jumbled.
Organised and chaotic.
In Exmouth, defeated. A bad mood came with last night’s wind. It’s sleepy here, Broome-like.
There are backpackers everywhere, beautiful people in vans or 4WDs with roof racks, they’re tanned. Does their tan imply they’ve had a good time?
Yesterday I wished it were the end of my life so I could spasm all my ideas and not have to worry about repercussions.
A wavering mood. Habitual thoughts returning to places I want to forget. The water is turquoise and the beach is appropriately named. I’m bitter and I’m content. The wind blows a haze. There is a national park of low lying shrub beyond the pristine water and sand. I mull, I mull. I walk into a school of fish and watch couples and friends speaking different languages. Their dressed confidently, in tans and g-srtings. They pull out phones, take a 1000 photos, a slow moving Instagram video, then another. I leave. Why am I so angry?
The flies multiply as the light grows. Anger in outbursts. I consider my Dad, how quick he is to swear at traffic in his small country town. Will I ever work my roof racks without swearing?
The first tinge of light, a half full moon bright through the small tree next to my swag.
I don’t want to be an aimless wanderer taking Instagram stories. I’m working towards it, just gotta pause to get it sorted. But it’s so cold my nippes are hard and sand races towards me and I can’t walk straight with the wind’s strength and I keep farting from last night’s rice.
They look like they are living the dream, their army green bus in the carpark, their blonde kids running around the crystal water shallows. I bet their photos tell a thousand false words. When it’s time to leave they walk up the white sand but two young girls keep jumping in the water. They look like they’re about four years old. One of the orange and white mums wades to the girls swimming in the shallows. I think she’s going to tell them that it’s time to go but instead she holds up her phone; “Hey girls I just want to take a photo.” The girls pose. “Now put your arms around each other.” The girls put their arms around each other. “Now pose.” The girls pose with their arms around each other. She takes about fifty photos. “Come on now, we have to go.” The girls reluctantly follow.
The sun burns me.
It’s up to me. Me and you, universe. You-niverse.
Full on oats, yoghurt and sooooooo many strawberries.
In our room drinking red wine. She’s envious of me, of my life. I contemplate this. She’s right, what a time I am living. But in the morning, I had hated everything. Everything!
Getting frustrated by others naivety puts the joke on me.
100% need some days off camping. 90% I will go to South West and set up camp—having R’s shack to myself was a dream, man. So will pack up, down another instant coffee and TRY NOT TO GET ANGRY OVER TRIVIAL SHIT SARAH.
Note to self: kill your darlings.
Songs keep appearing in my classical selection with REQUIEM.
There was another massive dust storm in Mildura. The world’s going to change fast, and it’s going to be strange.
The drive is flat, boring. I listen to Educated, the sky glows pink. The truck’s engine rumbles, a guy in his underwear checks the engine. Sheep come from nowhere.
I woke cosy, the crescent moon at the foot of my swag, a tilted smile.
I slept with my pocket knife, waking only to the noise from the tree above. Whatever animal it was, my movement would stop its movements and I’d hear it gasp. It sounded cute. When I woke again, kookaburras were laughing at me. I don’t blame them. The roar of the highway breaks any hope of peace. I have six months to set myself up. This morning I dream of mornings in bed with books and tea. Instead my day starts with my gas cooker on dirt. I drink the instant black coffee with raw sugar and doodle in my notebook. There’s energy to organise. I don’t know what today will bring.
Just did roof racks without swearing! It’s cooler, no flies.
I don’t need food from the supermarket but habit takes me there. The showers are seedy. I think of how good I feel in a nice space—home or a good camp. My face is red, asking for respect.
Another day another library. Margaret River library.
Wake at Amy’s, a wonderful night sprawled in a double bed. It is good to have the comfort of a kitchen table, kettle, washing machine, cleanliness. I can routine, create.
Saturday night. The grass is cut perfectly. There’s lovers, families, friends, and a perfect view of the city and sea. The epitome of picturesque in our cushy Australian lives. Back to this conversation. Pushing time. That happiness comes when it’s shared.
I feel strange. As in, I feel like I’m strange. Very strange. This might have something to do with my perception of other people’s interpretations of me.
Amy, in nice and respectful innocence, started giving me ideas of what I could do. Like, jobs. A career. Like I’ve never thought about it and need her help. But I live a secret world.
At Scarborough the water was so clear, calm. The icy chill to the water. Arvo wine and fruit on balcony.
A lady does a post on Australian Film Photographers FB page about websites. 90% of comments are men. Men and their websites.
At the library I work for an hour without looking at my phone.
Amy makes fun of girls not shaving their armpits, girls who don’t wear bras. When I comment that Black Friday is weird, she comments that it’s perfect to buy Christmas presents.
I need like minded souls around me. I need community.
It’s the 4th of December 2019. I weigh 55 kilograms, my legs are tanned and lean. My hair is light, short. I walk with confidence, most the time. Other times I feel hollow, alone.
Got excited by boogie boarding and spend all my energy. My hip bones hurt. I flop on my towel, feel the sun, imagine.
It starts, today. I don’t need to check my phone, obsess, desperately long.
Not spending + no wifi might not be such a bad thing?
In Roleystone now. A grandma-style bedroom, no service. The way the world works. They’d contacted me on Help X. Writers. Well, Caralyn has different projects. She’s self-published. But Glen is properly published. He has rigorous habits. Each afternoon he sets himself up and works for hours on his writing. The support they have for each other is inspiring.
“Just make whatever you want to make, because when you’re dead, will you really care that @fuckchops69 on Instagram didn’t like what you did?”
Caralyn tells me it’s great what I’m doing, leading the life I want to lead. I’m taking a risk, I tell her.
Let go of perfection.
Learning skills from Help X. Help the Earth. And there’s encouragement.
If I was to write without worries to what people thought, there I might find concentration.
PEANUT BUTTER PAINS.
Four goslings and me in bed. They chirp when I type, chirp when I stir.
I’m good at pretending I’m listening.
I get defensive when told something, anything. Is it from early childhood? Survival instinct? But I note it, I dwell on it, twist and turn it to constructive criticism.
Life is overcast. I’m an old man in a young woman’s body.
Glen scrolls the newspapers, YouTube, internet articles—research. He’s written twenty-five books.
Write Fail Write Fail Write Fail Write Fail. Read everything. Not the elitist, educated type of writing. Another kind. Bridging the gap. Shifting general knowledge.
I like Caralyn a lot! How much she is herself!
Research suggests it takes three weeks to cement a new habit. What will you start practising today that can permanently change the course of your life?
