The feel and lovely weather of Port Macquarie, and the NSW Fire Brigade Band, though the majorettes have some misguided loyalties.

I'd chosen Port Macquarie as a destination because it lies halfway between Byron Bay and Sydney, and was reputed to be more relaxing than Byron. I purchased a ticket from Premier, a competitor to Greyhound, and when setting up my itinerary, learned that schedule I'd been working with was in fact out of date (stupid hostel guy!), and I was in reality dealing with a choice of three different night buses. Hey, I'll save money on accomodation, right? The option I chose had me arriving in Port Macquarie, or "Port", at 1:20am when nothing would be open. I wasn't sure what I would do, but went for it anyway. As I mentioned, I now had a 7'2 surfboard, a 10-pound didj, a 70L backpack, 30 L front pack with a straw cowboy hat roped to the front, and two reusable shopping bags. In the few hours I had to transport all this stuff without a car, I knew I was in trouble.

After a seven hour stretch, where I managed to sporadically sleep despite lying across bum-contoured seats (when not watching a flickering version of that movie where Vin Diesel is a special ops guy charged with looking after a family of bratty kids), I was shaken away by the driver at 1:15. I had arrived in Port, and realized that my prospects for accomodation hadn't gotten any better. Grabbed my carry on stuff, and was soon alone at the bus station with a mountain of gear, only to realize that I had snagged the straw hat of the lady in front of me. I hope she likes mine, I thought it was cool (see Whitsundays pix). I stashed my stuff in some bushes, and headed out for some recon. Found there was a little park in behind the bus station, and since it was a clear night, thought it might do. I retrieved my stuff, found a little grove, and hunkered down for the night on a bed of pine needles.

The next morning, I discovered that I was in the Kooloonbung Creek Nature Reserve, and had slept in an area that is usually roped off from pedestrian traffic to promote revegetation. That's right Conrad, travel to faraway places, find exotic flora, and kill it. Thank god I didn't light a fire. It would be a while until hostels opened, so I trooped my equipment back to the bus station, getting a few quizzical looks from early morning walkers. What, haven't you seen a guy with a surfboard and several large bags emerging from a park at 6 in the morning before? I killed time by speaking with a travel agent back home, as well as calling my mom for the first time since leaving Canada. It was good to hear that familiar voice. Despite putting on a brave face and finding the humour in my situation, I couldn't help thinking that better planning would have avoided my little camp out. To add insult to injury, I later found out that if I had booked ahead, there would have been a room waiting for me when I arrived in the thick of night.

Regardless, it looked like it would be a sunny day, so once I finally got into the hostel and had a shower that did nothing to help Australia's water crisis, I went out to check out the town.

Port Macquarie is pretty small, and reminded me a lot of Victoria with its large percentage of retirees. Also back in my life were regular people, not the hordes of good-looking fresh-faced backpackers I was accustomed to being amongst. I was staying at the Sundowner Breakwater Tourist Park, a pretty good facility right on the water and close to a surf beach. It was largely a caravan park, also having apartments, cabins, and the dorms thrown in as an afterthought. I ended up having a room to myself for the entire stay, good for quiet (which I was craving post-Byron), though bad when I wanted someone to talk to.

I took a walk to the surf beach, and found it was really choppy, with jagged rocks sometimes hidden by the waves. Not the best day to be here, but I learned from a lifeguard there were a series of surf beaches which continued to the south. At this point, I noticed a black V-shaped cloud approaching from the north, wispy tendrils hanging from its underside. I rented a little single-speed bike, and went to check out the other beaches, thinking I could just ride with my board once I knew where I was going. Discovered to my chagrin that Port is REALLY hilly, and that the single speed just wouldn't do. It took me about half an hour to reach Lighthouse Beach, apparently the best surf beach around, at which point the skies opened up. I rode back to the bike shop in the rain, wondering whether I could figure out how to carry a board all this way. I managed to upgrade to a mountain bike, but by this point, the weather was so lousy that today's outdoor adventures were over.

That night, I noticed there was a jam night on at the Hotel Macquarie, one of about four establishments in the town. The Hotel M was a cool little place, with a network of rooms for pokies, music, smoking and non. I ended up playing with a guy named Tony, who had studied classical trombone at the Sydney Conservatory and ended up in the symphony, before deciding that he hated all the practice required of a brass instrument and was now concentrating on guitar and singing, with a plan to move to the UK with his wife to continue his music career. From the sound of his buddies (the crowd was essentially locals), he's pretty talented, a natural at any instrument he picks up. I wondered whether the jig was up, whether my eagerness to pull these spontaneous "sit-in" happenings would see me crash and burn, but it turned out okay. Fought my way through a few crazy key changes that Tony threw at me, but once things warmed up, it was really fun. We were joined by Bobs the soundman/organiser on Djembe, and soon a host of bongo players and impromptu dancers had joined us as well. A decent way to start my three day stay in Port. It was the 19th of October, and the first of three nights I was to spend here. Unfortunately it was to be the high point of my stay...

I'd seen a little handwritten poster at a travel agency advertising a didgeridoo-making/playing workshop involving a homestay. At the time, I'd written the number down, but when the time came towards the end of my Byron stay to set it up, I couldn't find the number. I searched everywhere, including a bit of public recycling bin diving that made me the butt of a few jokes. I went back to the various travel agencies, but could not find the poster anywhere, which led me to wonder how legit this experience would be... possibly even more legit than the other workshops (no homestay) advertising with professionally printed bills, I dunno. Eventually, I found it on a many-folded credit card receipt, stuck between two plys of my quickly distintegrating orange wallet (well, it is pretty much grey now, in the spots where it isn't transparent.) I gave the guy a call, and set up a time.

When the day arrived, I was feeling a little burnt out of the Byron scene. Said bye to Dave, the last remaining member of the Surf Crue, as he embarked on his Alternative Tour to Nimbin (that cheeky monkey). After an afternoon of waiting amongst a new set of faces, I finally spied the blue van I was looking for. After making him promise not to laugh at my growing mass of baggage, we loaded up the stuff, and hit the road.

The gent's name was John, but his traditional name is Jalum, which means "fish". Yes, he can swim. He is a member of the Bunjalung People which traditionally live a little further up the coast. Turns out he runs an Aboriginal Gallery in Brisbane (the name of which is now en route to Canada - sorry John!), and was back to prepare some blanks for a workshop as well as accomodate my little adventure. He used to have a gallery in Byron, but with the trendiness increasing, so did rent. At the same time, the didj kind of went out of style among tourists, which meant less income, so he bailed and did other things. We wound our way back into the hills, past Bangalow and even Lismore, finally arriving at the little farm property after dark. Over the course of the drive, and during dinner with he and his wife (Jan?), we chatted about Aboriginal culture and its place in Australian politics over time. Learned that the didj was traditionally used only for ceremonies, and only by desiginated members of the community. As well as the reason for sacredness of various sites I'd seen. Also learned some disturbing facts about treatment by the government: that until 1967, the Aborigines had been classified as flora and fauna; and that sand was still being pumped from Aboriginal settlements to maintain the beaches of the Gold Coast.

I was shaken awake the next day by John to select the termite-bored chunk of Squiggly Bark Gum I'd be using for my didj. In the daylight, I got a chance to look around the farm. Thirteen acres surrounded by green hills, bounded by cattle paddocks and a little creek containing platypus (I never got around to checking THAT out). Old horses grazed in the yard, and there were little groves of pine, banana, and palm. Apparently, John used to run workshop retreats up here on a more regular basis, and had at one time run a work/farmstay for Aborigine convicts (light crimes) as an alternative to prison. 80% of Australia's prison popuulation is Aborigine.

Over the next few hours, I whittled the log down with a piece of industrial strength band-saw blade, exposing the aged red-layer beneath the white, chiselled out the tips, sanded and lacquered. John affixed the mouthpiece of bees wax, and had a blow, so I know it can at least produce the sound.

Next, I sat at a table to practice circular breathing, blowing into a hose dipped in a jug of water to illustrate the broken stream of air. To put it lightly, I can surf better, it will take practice to get the hang of inhaling quickly with through the nose while exhaling with your cheeks and jaw. Also having a bit of trouble over-riding the tightened embrouchure of the trumpet with the relaxed of the didj.

Eventually my time was up, as John had to drive back to Brisbane. The ride back was quiet. I was starting to sweat details of upcoming legs of my adventure, and when I was dropped off in Byron, it looked the same, though I knew no one familiar was left. I wasn't long in this little Purgatory, as my bus arrived in the midst of a windstorm, leaving me in a scramble to find my ticket with papers being whipped about. I loaded up my surfboard, didgeridoo, two recycleable shopping bags, backpack and daypack onto the bus, and began the seven hour journey to Port Macquarie.

Byron wasn't just about surfing, so a few little things of note. First, some of the friends from the hostel who dared not enter the water with us (wise?), but willingly celebrated with us after were Tomas (Swe, whose father passed away while he stayed at the hostel), Marielle (Ned), Nonda (Ned), Tony (Ire), Ashley (Ire), and Andreas (Ger, who made us a nice curry dinner one night). Of special note are Elvis and Jesper, two guys from Denmark. Elvis isn't gay, he just likes pink pants (his own admission), and Jesper likes hats. They are also musos, Jesper playing violin and Elvis guitar. They are both into Celtic music, so we sat around jamming a few nights until the hostel folk shut us down by blasting Soundgarden. One night, they were trying to persuade a difficult doorman to let Jesper into the bar, with Dave exclaiming, "He's not drunk, he's Danish!" Of course, Jesper took this opportunity to drop his wallet, full of Aussie coins, and in the process of picking them knocked over the queue rope, so the ploy was up.

A particular place of notoriety was Cheeky Monkey's, located right across the street from the hostel, and home to such fine pursuits as pokies, wet T-shirt contests, "throw the ball through the hoop", cheap draft, and any other delights that get drunk guys to spend money. A couple of nights here is usually all it takes to want to look elsewhere, but admittedly it is convenient.

On October 11th, I was feeling kinda itchy to do some playing, so I grabbed my horn, and launched myself on the town. The first stop was The Rails, where I played a few tunes with an acoustic guitar duo. I was then off to the Great Northern, where it turned out the Conservatorium was having another showcase. After a bit of asking around, I ended up playing with the final act of the night, a funk band whose name I can't remember, but everyone was really good and the band was toit like a toitle. I was actually pretty happy with how everything went, and I found out later that these folk were actually the instructors at the Conservatorium, which would explain the musicianship. I ended up talking to this guy Liam after the show. He'd played in the band before I went on, a funky reggae thing with three back up singers, and invited me to a jam the upcoming Saturday. I was stoked, and accepted.

When Saturday came around, I drove out into the country again, down winding single lane (for BOTH directions) roads and yet a speed limit of 80. After a few mistakes (Liams directions were all landmark-based, and I embarked from the wrong starting point. Eventually figured it out, there aren't that many roads. Finally got to his place, actually that of his girlfriend, a wooded lot with three homes built on it. His girlfriend had been living out here since she was born. We hung out a bit, had a bit of food, and watched Bela Fleck and Cat Empire DVDs (the first time I'd actually heard them, that guy is a sick horn player, and the live shows seem pretty energetic, though kinda catering towards the ladies, I think). We then got our instruments out and wandered over to the other house, where Liam's friend and bass player Ado lived. It was this point I think my metronome fell out of my trumpet case, another 30 bucks gone. As for the jam, it never really materialized, and I learned that the funky reggae band wasn't his full time thing. Instead, they sound like shades of Evanescence, loud-soft-angsty stuff, not really my scene, but it's about the adventure, right? It was more of casual affair, and a nice group of folk, all of whom are accomplished multi-instrumentalists, but the objective of the night was more about drinkin'. (Note, I'd sensed this a bit earlier on, and thus laid off the sauce in order to make my escape). I ended up getting cornered by the girlfriend who must have been trained in circular breathing, because she talked so incessantly that I wasn't even able to get the odd grunt or "Uh-hunh" in. After giving me the complete history of her immediate family, she went on to talk about how her grandfather was the head of a Satanic cult and used to sacrifice babies in front of her uncle and father. And THEN, she went to talk about what she was looking forward to in Grade 12..... Whoa. I knew at that point it was time to start my goodbyes. When I got back to Byron, no one was at the hostel (as they were out being denied at the bar for being Danish), so I hit the sack.

And in case you were wondering, after the epic 5-man session, we wandered down to a beachfront Food Fair, where they had a trapeze set up, and for ten bucks they let you have a go.

Eventually the familiar faces began to leave. Many were part of the Oz Experience, a hop-on-hop-off tour that has some mandatory stops as well as several optional ones. Seeing as people's trips and accomodations often overlap, people on this tour get to know each other due to their mutual itineraries. A fun idea, at times I wish I'd done something of the sort, and I'm thinking of looking into whether something similiar exists for my future destinations. The people I knew were thinning out slowly, I'd sadly handed in the keys to the boat (after a vigourous scrub to get rid of the sand, surfwax, and dust from Broken Head), and certain hostel employees were getting under my skin, so I knew it was time to get movin' on myself. A new round of goodbyes made me feel a bit heavy, but there was one last stop I had to make before leaving Byron.....

Gratuitous pic of me 'n' Hot Stuff at White's, as well as the Heads at Ballina.

When I got back to Byron, I made another attempt at surfing, but it was still quite windy. The spray was flying horizontally off the crests of the waves, but I kept trying, telling myself that any practice would help. There is so much more to surfing than just the riding, as everyone laughingly told me before I left Canada. First, you have to enter the water, which is why beaches are better than going across the rocks as I found out. The waves are never the same twice, so timing your entry can be difficult. Your ability to ride ends when the wave collapses in a foamy mess at the shore, ideally you want to find the "green" part of the wave, so you have to get out past the surf to start. The easiest way is to pick a place inbetween areas where the wave is steep, cresting, and powerful, but with no two waves the same, inevitably you bear the brunt of a crashing wave. In this case, you can "duck dive" to get you and the board underneath, in my case, my ass sticks up, and drags me back past any ground I gained since I previously got mauled. Once you manage to get past the surf, you need to pick your wave. The wave face has got to be steep enough to get some momentum going, not too steep or it is about to break. Then, hopefully you aren't too far forward on the board (nose into water = eat sand, drink saltwater) or too far back (board doesn't get enough momentum). Next, you give your self 3 or 4 quick paddles with your aching arms, then plant your hands in the MIDDLE (not sides, or board becomes unstable = eat sand, drink saltwater), push yourself immediately to standing position as if you were lying on the floor then jumping up to get a soda, and hopefully plant your feet evenly, or the board fires out from you (= eat sand, drink saltwater). Should you actually succeed at the above, you don't want to take your wave too far into shore, or you have to get past all that surf again. The whole experience of getting out there, waiting for the right wave that's worth all the paddling, bobbing around in the waves, not to mention the ride itself, goes into the experience of surfing. For me, a couple of hours of beating around in the surf would result in one or two 5-second runs. It's all worth it though, when the right wave comes, you get up (it was happening more frequently for me now), and hear THAT SOUND of the board skimming across the water and your visual field becomes a blur. As someone at a party told me, you can't outpower the ocean, but sometimes you can outsmart it.

It's occurred to me a few times that regardless of my failure to outsmart the ocean, there is something about feeling its power, floating in it, seeing the way the sun lights up the shallower parts and makes them glow blue-green, connected by a wispy web of fizzing foam, something about that feeling makes me really happy. You don't get this kind of environment on a lake, or even a northern beach. No, this is strictly a warm, tropical feeling.

Exhausted once again, I checked this time into the Backpacker's Holiday Village, a bit back from the beach, but not nearly as far as the Arts Factory. The vibe here was pretty good, offered free surfboard rentals, parking, and an outdoor area with one long picnic table which was conducive for chatting. Slowly, I got to know the folks here, and decided to stay for the rest of my car rental, which I had until the 16th of October.

A few people around were interested in learning to surf, and typically had to walk the dodgy hostel boards fifteen minutes to get to the crowded Byron Beaches. I mentioned that I'd be going somewhere in the morning, and a couple of the guys in my room, Paul (Ire) and Dave (UK) were interested, and the Surf Crue was born. When I go snowboarding, the object is to get up as early as humanly possible to maximize your time on the slopes and get the most out of your lift ticket, regardless of what you were up to the night before. The same rules applied here.
I managed to roll out of bed at 6:30 the next morning, and sure enough, Paul and a guy from Montreal, Fab, were seen shortly after. Dave was... um.... occupied. We hit Tallow Beach, and a couple of places on Seven Mile Beach near Broken Head, all about fifteen minutes outside of Byron. Upon our return, I think the boys were pretty tired. By this time, it was my fourth day in a row in the water, and I was starting to get through the burn. We went out every morning for the next several days, driving up and down the coast looking for surf spots that wouldn't demolish a bunch of crappy surfers. During one such mission, I spied a guy packing up some windsurfing equipment (yes, we were still dogged by some of that damn wind). After a bit of a chat, I showed him how to rig his sail a bit better, and he let me take his board out for a spin. AWESOME! Of course, we had been walking back to the car after several hours of surfing, so my arms were pretty shot, but I still had a good session out across the bay and back. It felt great, and relieved some of the underlying frustration of being beaten down by the ocean all morning.

The missions continued to evolve so that if I happened to sleep in, there would be someone knocking on my door at 7am. The Crue sessions reached their peak on the 15th of October (my 11th straight day), when we managed to fit five guys plus boards into The Boat, and head down the crazy gravel road to White's Beach by Broken Head. The waves were great (and flippin' huge) here, as now the Head was doing its job and providing a shelter from the wind. I've been refraining from posting pix of family, friends, and fellow travellers on this site, but three or four of us waded into the water every morning to get thoroughly trounced, bruised, tossed, cut, and smothered, all seeking to get that five second ride, so I posted the pic. Left to right is me, Dave, Tomas (Ger, who got me thinking about Bali), Hendrick (Swe) and Paul. Pic on the left is the 5-man Crue and The Boat. When I gave my camera to the girl to take a pic, I had it set on Sepia for some reason.

I still managed to surf right up until I sadly gave The Boat back to Dugi on the 16th, meaning I went 12 days straight. It's pretty good exercise, since most of my time is spent swimming against the waves, and getting in the water is a good way to start the morning after a long night. Besides, we would arrive back at the hostel about noon, feeling like we'd actually accomplished something, giving us an excuse to slough the rest of the day off.

The name "Nimbin" comes from the story of Nymbngee, a wise bearded man who lived in the mountains. One day, two giants, jealous of Nymbngee's wisedom, encased him within a mountain. Nimbin, in his wrath, burst forth from the mountain, and the giants were so awed by his power that they turned to stone. Rumour has it that he still lives in the mountain to this day, and the two giant rocks and pile of rubble remain on the mountain overlooking Nimbin to this day.

At first, I thought this might have something to do with the wide-eyed, white bearded dude I'd seen on various promotional material throughout the town. Nope, turns out this bearded guy was abducted by aliens for a spell, and when he returned to Earth, he had the power of divine knowledge that he reveals through meditation and crystals....

By the time I arrived back in Nimbin, it was after dark, and it was pretty quiet. Without the carnivalesque atmosphere of the roaming "bewildered" tourists, shops and music, the town was actually a little creepy. The only people around were a few burnt-out long-haired dudes, a greasy looking dope dealer, and a family of tourists passing around a huge reefer. I got a bite to eat, then headed out of town into the hills to find a place to stick the car and camp. After a bit of driving through the senseless sideroads, I found a little driveway leading to a pasture, and soon fell asleep to the lowing of cattle and occasional dog.

The next morning I headed back into town to start fresh. As the museum wasn't open yet, I wandered down to Rainbow Power Co., an alternative energy facility which contributes most of the power to the town. People are allowed to stop in and ask questions about solar and wind resources, get a tour, or get comprehensive information about how to install solar panels and connect them to the energy grid. I didn't take a tour, but took some reading material. By then, shops and the Nimbin Museum were open, so I did a bit of window shopping, then went to get edjumicated.

Now that I had more time to explore, I realized that the tangential frenzy of the Museum was laid out in a roughly chronological order, exploring (1) the Aboriginal society in the area, (2) European colonization and industrialization, including the local rise and fall of dairy farming, (3) the arrival of hippies in this almost abandoned dairy town in 1973 for the Aquarius music festival, deciding to stay, and the philosophy of dropping out and starting a new society, (4) the battle for freedom from unjust governance, most with respect to drugs, but a good deal to do with the issue of terra nullis (even though there is evidence Aborigines have been in Oz for 100,000 years, the English government declared upon their arrival that it was vacant and they were entitled) and the 1988(-ish) Mabo decision in which the High Court conceded that in fact the Aborigines had the land first, and (5) the positive uses for hemp. It was a good read, and I'm glad I got a chance to come back to this crazy place for a better look.

However, it's not a big village, so I was done by about noon. Feeling a bit more positive about things, I headed back for another crack at Byron Bay.

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.