Reflection for a Century: Gold Coast, Australia

I'm walking on the left side of the path without thinking about it. I realized this an hour ago on my way to the corner store to buy some groceries: eggs and bread. I've got another full day here before I take the train to Brisbane the morning after; I figure if I eat 3 eggs at every meal I can finish the dozen. I surfed twice today, and my athlete's appetite has returned. So now I'm sitting out by the pool here on my laptop; I've checked Gmail, Facebook, Reddit, Instagram. I might watch a movie in a bit. I'm on the wrong side of the road, but apart from that, how is this different than home?

That was the first thought I had when I landed. I stepped through the glass doors onto the street and immediately sat down to switch my shoes out for sandals. Looking around, it's the same as any airport. I sniffed the air a few times just to check - no tropical fruit or foreign spices to detect sitting here next to the loaded ashtray. It wasn't until I was halfway to the hostel that a shrill cry from the bushes drew my eye to a fierce looking jet-black bird with a brilliant yellow beak, challenging me with one beady eye! That's the one thing that's consistently different here. There are weird fucking animals everywhere.

Not in the ways you usually hear about, like giant spiders dangling from doorways or scorpions in the toilet or anything like that. At least not that I've seen. But there are awkward, long legged birds with curved scimitar beaks prowling the paths by the beach, and scrawny bush turkeys boasting bright yellow wattles scampering about beneath the trees. I saw an impressive lizard, perhaps two feet long from teeth to tail, sitting as still as a statue on the side of the path; when I rolled up next to him on my rented beach cruiser, he scurried away with surprising speed, and I could have sworn he was running with only his hind legs. One type of bird calls out in a weird, lonely whistle that, when walking alone at night, sounds as if it's following me. I was surfing at Duranbah and noticed a neon blue air bubble on the water, which turned out to be a small jellyfish with three circular sails propped up on it's back. I kept my distance.

The first day I got here, I rented a bike and cruised along the water. The surf was incredible. Long lines of swell stretched away from the beach, marching in one after another, and from Kirra to Snapper rocks, about ten minutes on the bike, the water was littered with surfers. I just saw a picture uploaded to Instagram of Joel Parkinson, the 2012 ASP world champ from Australia, tucked inside a big blue barrel at Snapper Rocks; I didn't see (or didn't recognize) him when I was out watching, but barely a wave went unridden, and there was plenty of talent to admire. If one big wave managed its way through the first pack of human specks without being claimed, someone from the next group would grab it, or the next, or the next, or the next. It was like watching coins fall into their specific slots along the conveyor belt of a sorting machine.

The boards for rent at the hostel were far too large for surf in the head-high range. I stopped in at a few shops to check the prices on their used boards and rentals, then treated myself to an Australian cheeseburger and a local beer called Big Head (AUS 18.50 at the cheapest spot). My flight to Bali, via Virgin Australia, allows boards to fly without extra fees, so I resolved to find a board to take with me. I asked the guys at the burger joint for a lead on where to find a beater board, and they directed me to a Cash Converters (read: pawn shop) just around the block.

Eureka! I found a pile of two dozen used boards, ranging in price from $50 to $250 AUS. I poked around through the heap for about half an hour; most of them were in decent condition, and the wounded ones I would be able to fix. My friend Dan, who recently returned from a trip through Asia that lasted just shy of a year, had recommended I find a board with a rounded pin tail, which helps hold the board in the face of the steeper, faster waves I'd find out in Indonesia. I wanted a small board, but one with a little extra length in case a swell popped up and the surf went overhead. I can't say just how nice it is to have a bit of extra foam under your feet when you're scratching your way into a wave that size and looking over the edge to see tropical reef rushing by under a few feet of water!

I had to get back to the hostel with the bike before it got too dark so I left without buying a board. I went and talked to a Kiwi surfer working at the hostel about needing gear and he pointed me in the direction of a surf outlet a few bus stops away. Early the next morning, I rode out to the shop for a board bag and a leash. I got there before they opened, so I wandered through a nearby pet shop - lots of pretty birds and scrappy looking rabbits, even though apparently you're not supposed to own rabbits in Australia. I never quite figured that one out.

I headed straight back to the pile of used boards and picked out a 6'3" board from Brazil with the tail I wanted for only $80 AUS. I hurried back to the hostel, grabbed the old wetsuit I brought out with me, and took the next hostel shuttle out to Snapper Rocks.

The surf had completely fallen apart. Steady winds had whipped up from offshore and were blowing all the waves over into crumbles. I still surfed there the next few days, and I can only imagine how amazing that place must be when the conditions are right. It reminds me in so many ways of Steamer Lane, where I spent those few years falling in love with the whole crazy idea of surfing.

How is this different from home? Wild, long haired kids taking off on bucking waves twice their size, racing past the rocks and into the clear. Getting up high and watching the corduroy creep its way in from the open ocean and then smash against the shoreline. Beach cruisers, beer cans in the rocks, cars slowing down to stare. Broad chested bros with mirrored shades and store-stiff caps on. I'm a world apart, and I feel at home, and I know that I'm not. Weird stuff.