My objectives for my return to Byron were to stay a bit longer, plant some roots, and learn to surf. I'd taken lessons in Noosa, but now was time for practice.

It was strange to be back, as the the town was much the same, but the familiar faces were gone. I had a feeling that this would be the "post-modern" phase of my trip, when elements of my previous experiences in Oz would resurface for further fun and contemplation. Upon arrival, I checked into the Main Beach Backpackers, a block from both the beach and the CBD, perfect, or so I thought. That night, I ended up at the Great Northern Hotel to watch a night of acts from the Conservatorium of Music in Lismore. The first act was a woman with lots of jangly jewelry playing music in the vein of Tori Amos with lyrics about crystals, wood nymphs, and the Zodiac. Um... yeah. The songs just went on and on, so I eventually left, and returned to catch the closing act, Stipsky, the gypsy fusion band I'd seen my first time here. It turns out that the long-haired ringleader/guitarist/violinist is an instructor at the school.

The next day, I began to hunt for gear. Bought a shorty wetsuit off a guy at the hostel, and walked out of town to the Arts and Industry Estate on a hunch, and discovered several surfboard factory outlets that carried used boards. I also tracked down a car, a red Ford Fairmount station wagon soon to be christened The Boat, which was rented (or, ahem "loaned") to me by a guy named Dugi. Once I had wheels, I headed back to the factory outlets, and bought a 7'2 mini-Malibu with "Hot Stuff" emblazoned on the top. I immediately ditched the car, and headed down to Main Beach to practice. Wasn't too successful at first, I blame the waves. Later, I ran into Eric and Kara, as well as Erik and Carl, who had been on the Ragamuffin II with me. It was already happening. It was good karma to run into them again, so we went out on the town, making for a rough start the next morning.

Over the next few days, I roamed the various beaches in the area: Clarkes for mellow sheltered surf, the Wreck, an old beached steamer that had generated a sandbank and consequently a decent surf spot, Belongil and Main Beach. Took my horn along too, because as I've described, the roar of the ocean nicely masks its squeaks and squawks. At the recommendation of Jack at the hostel desk, I headed a half-hour north to Calabrita Beach, a nice shallow spot that didn't have the crowds of Byron. While packing my lunch for this trip, word came through the hostel kitchen that a pod of whales were close to Main Beach, so my plans were momentarily halted while I took a look.

Although Main Beach Backpackers had a great location, most of the people who stayed there were working at the hostel, so socially it was a bit cliquey and a tough nut to crack. The full moon was still going strong, so I tried to take some night shots of it and the beam of the Cape Byron lighthouse which punctuates the nightsky every 20 seconds or so. After finally convincing myself I wasn't going to get better night pix than what I had, I gave up.

After two nights, I decided to give up on the hostel too, and decided to sleep in The Boat for a bit, as it was palatial compared to the Getz. Plus, I could head a little further from Byron. My journey took me a little south of Byron to Ballina and Lennox Head, which offered great views from the Pat Moreton lookout, not to mention that no one would hear the horn from way up there. I tried a little surfing at each spot, eating a lot of sand and drinking a lot of salt water, but each attempt bringing me closer to the goal. I think. I looked around Ballina for something to do my first night away from Byron, but it looked like my choices were gambling or bowling. Since the moon was out, I decided to find a nice spot and hunker down for the night. I ended up on Seven Mile Beach Road in the Broken Head Nature Reserve, a pitted, slanted gravel road that twisted through the coastal forest with turns of more than 180 degrees at times. As it was the middle of the night, I took 'er nice and slow, eventually finding a little nook which turned out to be the parking patch for Whites Beach. I was perched on a 100m cliff, overlooking a secluded little beach illuminated by the moon. I walked down, but the rooty path soon decended down a steep set of crude stone steps. I was feeling lazy, and kinda tired by my persistent efforts in the surf, so I abandoned this idea for a daylight activity and went back to my five-star accomodations.

The next day, fate laughed at me. I had committed myself to learning to surf, and Nature tossed at me one of the best windsurfing days I've seen in a while. The wind chops up the surf, creates cross-waves, and generally hampers the efforts of paddling in the ocean. I tried a few spots that might offer shelter, but the wind was really strong, and coming from a direction that Cape Byron, Broken Head, and Lennox Head offered no protection but projected straight into the wind. Glumly, I drove back up to Pat Moreton Lookout, and watched the windsurfers bomb across the water. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the wind showed no sign of dying. Having spent years craving the delicate combination of free time, car, board access, and wind, I felt almost like a traitor wanting the wind to now die. I was tired, a little dirty, a bit lonely, and my surf undertaking was being quashed by conditions ideal to the sport I most love to do. What was a guy to do?

I know......

It was the 8th of October, and I was going back to Nimbin.