Jan 12, 2015

More Slack-Wristed Holiday-Making

Before very long we were zipping up the main road on Stradbroke Island, marvelling (is too strong a word) at the green-ness of everything other than the grey-ness of the trees that had received a good seeing-to at the hands of last year's bushfires. The Island is made of sand, with a few rocks that seem to be made of compressed sand, so sand is commonplace; but still it is covered in thick forests of eucalyptus and other trees whose names don't immediately spring to mind.

We were making for Amity Point, a dainty little settlement at the North end of the Island where we were to meet our friends from around the corner for what was promised to be a week of adventure and life-changing experiences. I was always under the impression that one should under-promise and over-deliver. But there were going to be dolphins, and how can you resist a little anticipation at that.

So anyway we pitched up at the Camp site, all aflutter at what was to be on offer, and bugger me backwards if it wasn't actually a really nice little place. Tony and Debra had their little Tentopolis pitched out under the shade of a big shady tree, right in front of their own little private beach (which other people were inconsiderately using, but then I suppose it wasn't actually their private beach), literally a stone's throw away from their polyester palace.

Their tent, though quite modest for five, was fronted with a verandah which housed their kitchen and dining facilities as well as a fully-functional insect repelling infrastructure and observation deck, all under an expanse of tenty-stuff with poles surrounding like the Doric columns at the temple of Delphi. Behind them, sheltered from the elements by a gazebo, was the dominion of David and Monica (Tony's sister and an old friend) and their boy Jonas.

The small beach gave out onto a little cove, contained on the right by a rocky breakwater and on the right by a fallen tree which was inexplicably still alive; the waves were contained by a distant sandbar which made the sea as smooth as a lagoon, and shallow enough to walk out for fifty meters or so before the floor dropped away. Children breathlessly told stories of how the sharks would get you if you ventured out any further than The Drop.

The water was crystal clear and as blue as a blue cheese isn't.

Under gathering cloud we drank a cup of coffee and watched the kids get themselves cooled off with a protracted swim stroke snorkel session.

Before going for a swim we decided it was probably let's-build-our-tent-o'clock and so we began to deploy Chez Gavin.

Soon it began to rain, and we were of course delighted by this, our mood lifted only by having chosen the rain-shadow of the shady big tree of shade to establish our small principality.

Before long we had completed our building work, and the rain obligingly moved on, so we could get changed out of our damp things into other things that would soon be wet, and went for a swim. The water was no longer as blue as it previously had been, but it was very warm and very nice. I floated on my back out near The Drop; Eloise screamed at me that I was liable to be eaten by a shark. Bless.

The mythical dolphins mythically beckoning us with their mythical fins all the time, somewhere just out of sight.

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