Fish Fever

By now you’re probably quite over my long winded descriptions of life on the road, since the daily cycle goes a little something like: waking up-eating-exploring/beaching/fishing-eating-driving-chilling-eating-sleeping. Fortunately, we’re settling into this new circadian rhythm of life quite comfortably. Sure, we go to bed with the senior citizens, but we rise with the roosters. It actually allows us to utilize the precious minutes of sunshine we have each day, because there really isn’t much to do in a camper when the sun goes down!

Let’s talk about Margaret River. This area is renowned for its wineries, but unfortunately we were quite disinterested with ‘wine-touring’ after our lengthy episode in Denmark. We rocked up into town and quickly sussed that there wasn’t too much to do besides wine tasting. (Twist my arm!) We stayed at the Riverview Holiday Park, indulging in showers, tacos and laundry. 

The next day was when we really discovered the gems in MR. Strolling through town and fiend-ing for a coffee, we found a little café simply titled “The Bakery.” The quaint cottage-y/vintage/hipster/jolly-old-England vibe immediately reminded me of my sister Riley. She’s an aspiring baker with dreams bigger than the meringues down here, jostling around the decision between an English degree and nurturing sugary carby delights into the world. Quite simply, I don’t think she would have left the place had she been there with us. Steve had a salted caramel sugar doughnut while I sipped on some Chai tea out of a delicate purple teacup.  The time did come where we had to give up our table and hit the road – one pot of tea only lasts so long. Luckily memories last forever.

 Steve was itching to visit a liquor distillery in the area so we headed up into the hills to taste some of their goods. The Grove is a neat little place that produces their own liqueurs, spirits, ports and beers. Steven, being a collector of bottles from around the world (in hopes of stocking a bar that looks like the UN one day), was keen to find a unique flavor. After many tastings, including: coconut-white chocolate-cream, macadamia nut-coffee-cream,  limecello with ginger beer, and chili-vodka with coke, he finally settled on Turkish Delight liqueur.

The drinking didn’t end there I’m afraid. Tim, reading in the van this whole time, was keen to see that we overindulge, so he turned right into the next venue with tastings – Knotting Hill winery. Steve and I went through the whole song-and-dance and ended up buying a delicious bottle of chilled Shiraz. Just on our way out, we looked over the deck to the lake and noticed Silver Perch swimming around. The owner kindly asked if we had a fishing rod with us (OMG, if he only knew!), and said we had free reign of the lake. He even brought us local bait! We thought a catch was a shoe-in, so the boys put in a few hours of casting before we got discouraged. We had been eager to catch something since the Australian Salmon, but apparently our luck had run out.  We drove away with our heads hanging low and pouting for fish.

We ended up at a beachside café in Yallingup. We arrived near sunset and took a looooooong walk down the beach in search of seals, but only found gnarly surfers shredding some huge barrels.  Our walkabout took some time, so when we got back to the café, we called it a night and packed it in. Tim, frustrated with the angling from earlier, set out to cast under the moonlight while Steve and I had a little jam with the ukulele. Y’all should know that Steve played his first song - “In the Jungle!” Surprise, surprise, Tim returned with no fish and we just ended the day right then and there.

When the sun rose, Timmy was on a mission. He had had it with his score count in the fishing world. At the crack of dawn, we pulled out of the lot and beelined it for the Busstleton Jetty, a spot some locals had suggested. Being the longest pier in the Southern Hemisphere, its picket-white-fence-like posts extend something like 3km off the shoreline.  The fish gods did not hear his prayer however, as time and time again, his hook revealed itself empty. Steve actually made away with a small squid! The slimy thing shimmered and changed colours on the jetty, its eyes like giant marbles on the sides of its head. The fish-famine was temporarily over – Steve ate calamari on a bun that morning for breakfast!

After our shenanigans at the jetty, it was time to head into the metropolis that is Perth – the most isolated capital city in the world.   Of course, we would have stopped here anyway, but the whole visit was made much more enjoyable due to the fact that we were visiting some newly made friends. Steve and I had met a great bunch of people when we went Whale Shark diving in Exmouth a while back. They had insisted we stay with them on our giant roadie, and true to their promise, we did! We spent that afternoon shopping and exploring Freemantle, home of the Dockers before we sidled up to our host Arthur’s house. That night, we dined on $15 steak and a pint meal at the kids’ local hangout and said our goodnight’s only just a little later than we usually do. Friday was for the merrymaking. (Some people in this world still have to work!)

If I wrote down everything that happened on Friday night, someone would turn it into Hangover IV or a Saturday Night Live skit. The drunken escapades that occurred were many and completed with high spirits. The short breakdown goes like this: the afternoon was dedicated to finding a trio-type Halloween costume (which we did) and lunch at our first sushi train. We then met up with Arthur for drinks at The Gentleman’s Squire, a business hangout that we were all underdressed for and way over-drank at. Obviously the next logical thing to do is go shopping, so we dipped into a charming, yet pricey little place called Pigeonhole. Arthur got himself a wallet, Steve did some Christmas shopping, and Tim shuffled around in a onesie (part of the top secret Halloween costume) that made the salesgirl laugh.  We trained it back to Arthur’s neighbourhood and met up with the others for pizza, beer pong, and flip cup. Somehow, we ended up at a girl named Stacey’s (…yes, we did sing her a few renditions of Stacey’s Mom…) Asian-themed party. The night ended by christening Arthur and his flatmates’ pool, making old fashioned popcorn on the stove, and sitting like 60’s children on a shaggy rug passing around a bottle of wine.

The morning after a night like that one calls for a serious brunch. My friend Courtney had just moved from Melbourne to Perth, so she joined our sordid crew for a feed at Ciopolata? Breakfast seemed to help somewhat, but after we hugged our hugs, said our thanks and drove away, my tummy decided to rebel. I hung onto the dashboard as we drove the endless highway towards Lancelin. Our aim was to go sand dune-boarding there, but as we all weren’t feeling up to par, we passed through the town to find a camping spot. It started to rain, and I was in a bad way, so when we saw a pull-over spot with a view we decided to check it out. Well, if it wasn’t called Hangover Bay! Seeing it as a sign, we found a spot and parked it. Moments later, I was running to the toilet, spilling my brunch. (Boo!) Thankfully, a piece of toast and a tea brought me back to life enough to do the ritual shotgun with the boys.

That night it rained upon rain, but Mother Nature seemed to get it all out of her system because when we woke up the next day the sun was shining bright. Stoutly heading North, Steve and I recognized a sign advertising for “the Pinnacles.” We turned off and paid the $12 entry fee. Tim, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with the experience and read War and Peace in the back of the van the entire time. (He did sneak a few peeks.) The Pinnacles were pretty spectacular for such a touristy thing to do – thousands of small pyramids dotted the landscape to the horizon. After we got our fill of “Ooh-ing” and “Ah-ing” at rocks, we headed further to Kalbarri in hopes of doing some sand dune boarding.

We struck out with the dune boarding as the man who runs the tours was taking some holidays and the locals said the easy to reach spots aren’t really anything to write home about. While obtaining this information, we also bought bait and the boys inquired about fishing in the area. To their delight, we discovered a man who would take us across to a small island on his boat for $5. Inspired, we pre-cooked dinner and hatched a plan to camp on the island for the night. As the sun sank, we were being carried across in a small tinny to a patch of land being smashed by waves.

I’m not talking the kind of waves you see pro-surfers leap onto, I’m talking about the kind of blustery, murderous power that only the ocean has, the kind seen in the Deadliest Catch. We found a spot, and pitched our tent for the first time on the trip. Neighbouring kangaroos spied on us from the dunes. I sorted out logistics of dinner, etc, while the boys set up their line for sharks.  We fished into the night. We fished into the wind. Tim almost got swallowed by a pseudo-tsunami trying to cast the large surf casting rod out with all of its rigging of fish and weights and metal line.

The very first bite was the closest we came to reeling in a shark. The rod screaming and bending, while I held onto the back of Steve’s sweater so he didn’t get pulled in, only resulted in a sad case of the one that got away. All of the rest of our futile attempts resulted in tangled line, and  getting caught up in the rocks. We patiently sipped on our Wignall’s port while we watched the tiny bell against a backdrop of stars as the moon rose, heavily full over the sand dunes. Alas, we called it a night.

Probably the most comical part of the evening was when we all laid down to sleep. Immediately, we all looked at each other on a severe incline, sand hard packed against our backs, and Tim proclaimed, “This is going to be a bad sleep.” And it was. The next morning we rubbed the crust from our swollen eyes and trucked across the island to ring the bell to get picked up. The attendee was over in a matter of minutes, and we wearily admitted to our lack of a trophy. We didn’t stay in town long after that, moving onwards as we always do.

With Tim and Stevie in the front, we pulled over and stopped at a few sights along the way. One of them was Shell Beach – a beach that was literally strewn with cockle shells, in layers upon layers until they were ground into sand by their own weight.  We also happened upon Eagle Bluff – a stunning view of the turquoise coastline. From the lookout, we spotted some rays and many a shark. 

Of course, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum couldn’t resist a chance at scoring a Bronzie or another of its toothy cousins. We set up shop for the night, the boys scaling the cliff and digging out a protective barrier to keep out any potential snakes. The relentless wind and the treacherous descent to the water pretty much

made the decision for us – we would bring down the tent for warmth and shelter. Those two stayed up all night, waiting for the scream of the reel, while I rested peacefully in the sanctuary of the flapping walls. At dawn, we gave up all hopes of netting a beast. I really admire the dogged determination and thoughtful planning that the boys exhibit while on this hunt for a shark to call their very own. I’m just hoping they catch one soon so their fish-fever might subside and we can do some other activities!

Being Thankful

Dropping Johnny off at the airport was bittersweet – we were losing a valuable companion but gaining back some space. It was nice to have a quartet for a while; having company in the back of the van while the bros drove onwards was nice. We even started a band, “The 2 Beanie Crew,” and we performed our debut single Somewhere Over the Rainbow on the beach in Port Lincoln. Alas, all good things come to an end and we shipped J-Dawg back to Victoria.  Like all long road trips, we wanted to catch up some time after spending a few days in Port Lincoln. We jockeyed the camper Westward and made it to Drystone Walling to pack it in for the night. When we slid open the side door, we were immediately swarmed by flies – and that was the least of our troubles.

As the blanket of night curled around us, the biters came out to haunt us. Luckily, Tim had packed a mosquito net in his suitcase, so we were able to perform our routine shotgun without getting nibbled on. But things just kept getting worse. Winged devils of all shapes and species were pawing the windows for us to let them in. We realized we were in big trouble when we started to sweat inside the van, and only two of the windows had screens on them. While I made dinner, Tim and Steve went about cutting the mosquito net out in shapes of the defenseless windows and fitted them over top with electrical tape. 

We thought we would be safe, but we were still getting swarmed!! Horrified, Steve discovered that some bugs were so thirsty for our blood that they were squeezing through the screens! All hands on deck were called, and a mad double-screening and mass murder of anything that had infiltrated our defences ensued. After the massacre, we ate our dinner with beads of sweat rolling off our foreheads and set up the beds. We were hesitant to give ourselves to sleep that night, our imaginations running wild with what was wiggling through the netting and feasting on us while we lay unknowing. Go figure – kids can swim with Great Whites but we can’t handle bugs…In any case, we’ve now enforced our barricades so that they will keep us from our flying friends for the rest of the trip. The next day we rose early and left fast to escape them. Plus, we had ground to cover – all the way to WA!

The drive to Western Australia was long and outback-like. Many features of the landscape reminded me of the Riley/Kacy/Heather trip in July. The earth was red, the bushes were short and windswept, and the land was flat, flat, flat in all directions. We stopped along the way to see the Haystacks – a random outcropping of massive boulders that were dropped into the middle of nowhere. There wasn’t too much to see, so we continued forward, knowing the South-West held all the gems.

Crossing the border threw a monkey wrench into the plans. We rolled past many quarantine signs, warning that any fruit, vegetables, and honey products would be confiscated or ensue heavy fines. We were pretty nonchalant about the whole thing until we approached the barricades. Just like crossing from Niagara to Buffalo, there were booths with officers to man the stations. Our sensible side decided we’d better come clean. Easing up to the window, we started our declarations, and immediately the lady started the reaping. In the end, we only lost a bag of potatoes, a bag of apples, some bananas, and a jar of honey. The matron saint at the border tipped us off that a lot of “salads” go across – many people in WA apparently like their onions quartered and placed around the outskirts of their salads with only a small dribble of dressing in the corner – strange, hmm? We pulled over to a picnic table and massacred all our taboo vegetables into a makeshift salad in order to pass the border police. In the end, it worked and we were separating our veg as soon as you could say “WA.”  That night, we only continued a little passed the border to a free site and camped in the estranged outback, with unknown bones outlining our desolate campsite.

The next day we drove into the town of Esperance – the first actual city we’d come across in many miles. As soon as we drove in, we realized we were going to be S.O.L. for free-camping. “Welcome to Esperance,  Camping Permitted Only in Designated Areas,” read the intro sign. Hmmm. Taking a short tour around the place, we discovered that Esperance had been there, done that, given the ticket before. Free campers were fined up to $100 for posting up in a site that wasn’t a designated campground. The cheap-o’s that we are, we circled around, trying to justify random sleeping places – the most likely, parking directly in front of a campervan rental agency with the other display models, to fit in for the night. In the end, our judgment got the better of us and we ended up paying to $40 it was to camp at a real powered site with toilets and showers.  It was the right thing to do after all, and we had a great campsite to look forward to the next day – Lucky Bay.

Lucky Bay ended up staying true to its name – it was a seriously auspicious spot for us. Aside from us being so ‘lucky’ to camp on such a beautiful and untouched beach, it was also the site of our first major crisis on the road trip that we narrowly averted. The beautiful day was spent in the sunshine on the pristine white sands, frolicking in the icy surf and playing paddle-ball at a semi-competitive level. There was quite an irritating wind blowing through, but it could hardly ruin the spectacular scenery. Realizing that many 4 wheel drives stationed themselves on the beach, we enquired about the tide.  Even though our van wasn’t a 4 wheel drive, we had enough time to enjoy a beach dinner before advising her safely off onto dry land. (I’m sure you can all see where this is heading – pity, we didn’t.)

The afternoon was lovely.  Coffees and chats in the shelter of the van, with the best of views. Around dinnertime, we realized that every single soul was evacuating – probably  a sign that we should be on our way – and we did heed this tentative warning, that is, until we spotted a tourist’s dream; a kangaroo on the beach. Right at the exit from the beach to the mainland, Steve spotted her. Knowing how rare of a sight this was, the 3 of us jumped from the van, and breathlessly approached the wild animal. For a fleeting second I said, “I feel like we should move the van off of the sand...,” but the miracle sighting could be gone any second, so we had to be quick. Big White was left 100 metres from safety. 

And oh, what a miraculous sight it was! The mama ‘roo was actually nursing her baby, and let us approach quite near to them.  The special moment was only heightened by the spotting of wild dolphins cruising in from off-shore. Tim ran willy-nilly down the beach to frolic with the porpoises, as Steve and I hugged and looked upon paradise. We turned around to the van and I queried, “Is it just the angle we’re on, or is our van sinking?” Nonchalantly we walked up to the white cubicle and quickly realized, that we were indeed sinking. And we didn’t have the keys. Moods changed instantly.

Suddenly I was running down the beach screaming “Tim, do you have the keys, the van is sinking!” He didn’t have them, I turned on my heel and sprinted back to the area with the kangaroos, remembering that my shallow pockets held the keys not too long ago.  I scoured the ground and spotted the blue tags fortunately sitting on the sand in plain view. Snatching them up, I relayed them back to Steve. By this time, Tim had made his way back to us and we spun our wheels frantically in hopes we would slip by this mishap. We all had a sinking feeling that we weren’t getting out of this one easily. Our eyes shot panic like lightning bolts between each other. Tim and I ran up to the campsites in hopes of finding saviors. Steve and a passing Asian tourist tried to think of how to approach the situation. I felt like I was in a novel or a bad daytime television series. I ran into the clearing, barefoot and beachy, breathlessly shouting at anyone who would listen “Does anyone have a 4 wheel drive? We’re stuck in the sand and we’re sinking!” Some people looked away. Some did not. I was driven back to the beach by a gentleman in his big 4 wheel drive, with him chuckling assurances that this rescue was routine - but even he grew serious when he realized we had nothing to hook the straps to. Our van kept sinking. In order to strap on to our van successfully without breaking anything, we needed a hook.

The boys and our new recruit, along with the Asian tourist started to dig under the wheels. I set out yet again to find a “D-shackle.” Again, I flew with anxiety through the campsite. I knocked on the doors of couples peacefully eating their dinners and interrupting them with our drama. Nearly everyone I came across went down to the beach to lend a helping hand. It never ceases to amaze me how, when you really need it, the human condition is recognized by all and people step up to the plate. With all the help of more than a dozen people, it was finally a Freemantle supporter with a “ball bag” who saved our bacon. We put the bag under the van, and hooked up the tube to the exhaust pipe. Slowly, our hopes began to rise, as the wheels rose from the sand. Seaweed was being shoved under the wheels along with the wooden boards that make our bed at night. When it was quite possible that we were going to get out of this unscathed, I managed to snap these 2 photos.  Hearts racing, the van rose from the swamp of the beach, and we literally jumped for joy. Everyone involved got stinky hugs from all of us, as we had nothing else to offer them in appreciation. The next two days, the three of us quietly reflected on how lucky we were and also how stupid we were, and how thankful we are to the people who helped us.  

In our daze of almost losing our live-in vehicle, we left Lucky Beach and ended up in the woods at Torbay Head. The moment we pulled up we were questioning our decision as there was a group of strange looking teenagers camping on the Saturday night. The sun was ripe to set though, so we decided they were probably harmless and went about our business. It wouldn’t have been so awkward except for the fact that the campsite was so small and we were basically beside the wayward youths. We definitely weren’t going to be hypocritical of their partying, but we wanted a quiet night. We stuck to ourselves and tucked in early – only to listen to the ranting and moaning of the adolescents all night long. When morning arrived, I exclaimed, “we made it!”

After two nights of (very unusual) stressful experiences, we exhaled a sigh of relief when arriving in Denmark and peeing in their exemplary public toilets at the i-site. After being saturated with information about things to do, we set off into the hills of the town, on a wine tour. *(Actually, before we even left Albany, our path fatefully crossed with Wignall’s winery! Unfortunately, no Wignalls were on site, but I went in and tasted their wares, and left with a bottle of Port, like any true Wiggy would.) 

 Tim and I mercilessly indulged in a full day of wine tasting while Steven took one for the team and chauffeured us around. At the end of the fun and games, we tottered into Shelly Beach campsite. The men strung up their fishing lines while I cooked up dinner and we ate it under the brilliance of the moon, watching the fluorescent glow stick bob with the aggressive waves. Nothing was biting, so we called it a night and had a serene sleep listening to the waves call in.

Our troupe woke up and started our day with fishing off of the Mcgreary rocks and phoning home to wish the fam a happy Thanksgiving. (Unfortunately, our dreams of having a Thanksgiving meal just like home was thrown to the dogs as we realized we had sausages to eat in the fridge, and had jambalaya instead.) Once again, no fish wanted anything to do with us so we moved on to something we knew we would enjoy. Denmark’s Elephant Rocks and Green Pools.

The scenery was spectacular and fortuitously the sun was shining. I spent the better part of the day reading some good old fashioned literature and making friends with crabs while the boys did boyish things like snorkel and swim and fish. That night, we rested our bones in the beautiful forests of the Mt. Burnside rest area; eating our jambalaya and doing shots of gin from seashells we collected from the beach.

Although it wasn’t a real Thanksgiving meal, I feel that all of us are fully aware of how thankful we are for our luck thus far on the trip, but also that we have lives and families that allow us to indulge in a massive responsibility-free journey. So although we don’t have turkey and we don’t have our families and friends close to us, we are fully aware of how much we have to be thankful for. 

A Road Less Travelled

Excited to set off!

Thus far, the road trip is going more or less how I’d expected it; spectacular scenery, lots of laughs, camping in the middle of nowhere; the easy lifestyle of a travelling gypsy. Rather unfortunately for me, Steve and Heather’s ‘shotgun’ tradition from the last trip has carried on to this one; each time a new camp site is reached, there is a communal poking-and-chugging of beer. It’s a rather celebrational tradition which has the best of intentions – but so far on this trip we’ve had a new campsite every night. (Stay tuned for the highlights reel.)

The minute we left the big smoke, the clouds were angry and shouting rain. It lasted like this for 3-4 days, the storm whipping up some gnarly waves along the Great Ocean Road. We struck out from Melbourne and landed pretty close to home – Apollo Bay. According to tradition, we all pow-pow-pow’ed and nestled in for the night to our humble dinner of liver pate and red wine, listening to 15ft waves sledgehammer the shore and the rain knock on our rooftop.

We moved on the next day and roamed into Cape Otway to show Tim the wild koalas. We spotted them in their usual spots (including Lady Gaga herself, at her same address) but it was too blustery to make a hobby out of it. We missioned onward, winding down muddy pathways in native forest, passing sopping wallabies and koalas in fetal position. Once at our destination, Blanket Bay, the rain eased up and we were freed from our white cage on wheels. Of course, Steve was itching to get his line wet, and luckily we ran into some vacationing blokes who lent us some of their bait and advice. We didn’t end up catching anything but the view was stunning. That night, Dick and Trav cooked us a mean dinner of their specialty sausage dish and we star gazed for the Southern Cross and roving  satellites before we hit the pillows.

Pushing through the bullying wind, we safely made it to Pinks Beach the following eve. I can’t really say much about Pinks Beach besides they had lots of seaweed on their shore and bugs in their toilets, but it was free and had a beautiful sunset. Tim made a delicious pasta and meatball dish for tea while we chilled out to some CCR like the hippies of another time.

The next day we nicked through Adelaide to pick up our good friend Johnny from the airport. Once we grabbed him, it was already dark, but we were eager to put some distance between us and the city. We ventured through the early part of the evening and arrived in Port Parham to sleep. The next morning we awoke to see that the ocean had peeled itself back from the shore. 500m off, people with rakes were dotted across the horizon. After making some enquiries, we discovered that they were hunting for Blue Swimmer Crabs. Not the kind of people to pass up a challenge, the four of us kicked off our ‘thongs’ and scampered out through the weed in search of some gourmet crustaceans,  armed with a plastic bag and a butter knife. Once we had waded what seemed like miles out in the calf-deep water, we stopped to talk to an old man who had a bucket full of the buggers. He started to laugh at us and pointed at his wellies, explaining that the crabs we were looking for were nestled like land mines in the sand right under our naked feet! He wished us luck and we continued much more cautiously – until the tables turned and the crabs started to hunt us! Johnny got bitten first, and mid-commotion Steve got bitten as well! We had two crabs on our inexperienced hands! Both were quickly captured and held prisoner.

Everyone was on high alert as we cautiously poked and prodded the ocean floor. The boys also discovered, and “spear-hunted” a puffer fish! We left that poisonous little beauty where it was though, knowing full well we couldn’t eat it. Once we had 4 unlucky crawlers we headed apprehensively back to shore, and cooked them right up on our camper stove. Although they didn’t heed much meat, they were delicious and as fresh as you can get!

Lowly Point in Whyalla is where we ended up the next day for camp. Unfortunately this beautiful spot was cursed with relentless flies so we didn’t spend too much time outside, save for our group shotgun and some handstands and rock-skipping on the beach.  

The next day it was a short jaunt to Port Lincoln – what we’ve found to be the friendliest city in Australia so far. Every single person we came into contact with went above and beyond their care of duty to help us out. Even 16-year-old boys loitering at the gas station went so far as to find us a map and follow us to our destination to make sure we arrived safely when we asked for directions.( I may come back here to mother my children one day in hopes these manners rub off.)

A short story that further epitomizes the friendliness of Port Lincoln involves a man named Michael. Once we arrived and parked, Steve got out to ask the i-site for camping information and the rest of us waited at the van. A man was passing by with a bucket and some fishing rods and Johnny asked, “You have any luck out there?” At this, he immediately turned 90 degrees and bee-lined it over to us. After about an hour long chat with Michael, we knew his life story and the gossip of the town. The retiree with back problems donated about 6 King George whiting and 1 squid to our crew which we filleted, battered and BBQ’d at Billy Light Boat Ramp. That night we didn’t indulge in many bevies as the next day, we all had pins and needles for Great White Shark cage diving.

October 6^th was like living a day in a National Geographic. Steve, Johnny, Tim and I rose with dawn to join other thrill-addicts on the Calypso Star II. Everyone’s eyes were filled with a quiet excitement knowing that in a matter of hours we would all be submerged into 16 degree sea water filled with chum, and look right into the peppercorn eyes of a Great White.

Holding in my cookies

The morning started out fine – coffee and croissants, tutting out of the bay; but soon things turned rough as we passed the shelter of land and headed out into the deep blue. 4-5 meter swells rose up to greet us, and although I popped some Gravol, it was too late. I spent the entire 3 hour ride clinging to the railing and keeping a death-glare on the horizon. Steve stayed with me during the entire traumatic experience, rubbing my back and keeping me company. Finally, the torture was over as we sidled up to the Neptune Islands and anchored. (Past this point, the next land is Antarctica!) As a climax to the seasickness, I gracefully spewed my breakfast into the appointed bag and was done with the illness for the rest of the day. (Thank goodness!)

As soon as we had anchored, the teenage crew started hucking carcasses of Tuna into the ocean. They were attached by rope and each had its own white bobber which dipped and dobbed cheerily with the sea. Fish guts and blood spewed from the side of the boat in voluntary spurts, laying a trail of breadcrumbs for the beasts. It didn’t take long for them to sniff out an easy snack. The massive steel cage was lowered behind the boat and group 1 suited up. We all watched on as the iconic fin rose from obscurity, a dark grey shadow beneath it; the shark would break the surface, cruising for the tuna. At the last minute, the deckhands would yank the bait out of the way, so the sharks would once again circle around for a mouthful.

We were group 3. By this time we had seen 2 groups go in and return unscathed. To be honest, I wasn’t scared at all. I don’t think anyone was. You can choose to believe this or not, but I don’t think any of us held any terror in our hearts as we stretched into our wetsuits. We were full of nervous excitement, awe and disbelief – but we knew we were far from any situation that played out in Jaws. (Although Jaws was filmed at the same location!)

One by one, we lowered ourselves into the cage, regulator in mouth. With gumption, I set out down the ladder quickly, only to be astonished once the water hit me. Freezing doesn’t begin to describe it! It was actually hard to catch my breath with the shock of the cold, combined with the steady pump of adrenaline in my blood. I ascended the ladder a little and held on with my mask in the water as I practiced a few breaths and let my body temperature regulate. Once I was breathing normally, I slid to the bottom of the cage with the others.

It didn’t take 5 minutes to see our first shark. In fact, we had a total of 7 sharks cruising around our boat the entire day. On our personal dive, we were privy to 3. One 4 meter one with spots on his tail, a smaller one, and a massive 5 meter brute with scars and battle markings all over his body. These three put on a humbling show for us, striking the tuna bait and sashaying past us, sometimes close enough to touch. Like the horror movies, the monsters would materialize out of the grainy blue, approaching with their famous ‘wiggle.’

Once the 45 minutes were up, we scaled the walls of the cage and back onto the boat. Paralyzed with cold, and mind reeling with the recent showing, none of us could utter a proper sentence. It was only after we indulged in a hot shower, bringing the blood back to our cheeks that we reveled in the experience. The rest of the day we spent watching the rest of the groups go and return as we did, with the same vigour and speechlessness that we had had. We looked on as the creatures visited port and starboard; leaping, sweeping past, snapping and splashing as nature built them to behave. We never tired of the magnificent sight.

The day was a long one; trying to get his money’s worth, Tim managed to slurp back 7 coffees by the time we arrived back to dock in the evening. We were barely able to drink a West End and watch the footage from the day before our heavy eyelids surrendered, and we slipped away safely in our bunks at the YHA in Port Lincoln.

Everyone was in a funny mood the day after the cage diving; quiet, tired, contemplative. We drove out to Coffin Bay National Park mostly in silence. We munched a tuna sandwich sitting on the edge of some cliffs overlooking a beautiful turquoise seascape. When we arrived at the chosen campsite, it wasn’t much too look at so we decided to explore the park in hopes of finding a better beach. We definitely found one in Avoid Bay. Down a road that was dimpled with stones and potholes, we gently urged the van. When we reached the bottom, the journey still wasn’t over; we climbed over massive sand dunes, following a small path which opened up to a massive expanse of smooth sand and rolling ocean with layers of blue leading out to the sky. We decided to make that our home for the evening.

Actually, this particular evening held more action than usual for our troupe. Nobody really woke up until we all had a round of coffees at 6pm. Steve and Johnny were compelled to hook into a shark and had it in their minds that this beach was going to deliver. Tim and I brought dinner down to the shore and watched those two fish-crazy brethren scramble to set up lines and berley bags and hooks and leaders and rod holders.  The sun slid out of the sky and was replaced by a sliver of a moon.

It didn’t take long before the small silver bell on the tip of the rod started ringing to warn of the fish on the other end of the line. In the semi-blackness, under the Milky Way, Steve reeled in a 10lb Australian Salmon! We were all leaping around in excitement at the big catch. We released the fish back into the great beyond and started the perilous trek back to the van with our flashlights aimed strictly on the narrow trail in front of us.

The next morning after some less eventful fishing and a round-robin tournament of com-cean paddle ball, we lumbered back up the dusty unkempt trail to the main road. It certainly isn’t a road that’s travelled much, and that’s probably what makes it so great. Maybe great things that aren’t discovered by many are treasured by all.

The Definition of Epic

You know when you’re at the movies or the mall and you here a giggly gaggle of teens shriek “That’s so EPIC!” and you just roll your eyes because, really, you know that Fast and the Furious 6 really wasn’t epic, and neither was the wobbly kick-flip their buddy landed. Epic is an over-used word that 21^st century adolescents have hijacked and now use as a synonym for ‘awesome.’  Urban dictionary has picked up on this slang-epidemic, defining the modern day version as:

1.	Epic
	The most overused word ever, next to fail. For even more asshole points, use them together to form "epic fail."  Everything is epic now. Epic car. Epic haircut. Epic movie. Epic album. Epic shut the f*** up.

In more classical times, the word meant something completely different. Merriam-Webster defines it as this:

 ¹ep·ic                                                adjective \ˈe-pik\

1: telling a story about a hero or about exciting events or adventures

2: very great or large and usually difficult or impressive

In this accurate description of the word, is where I think I can explain the trip Steve, Tim and I are on the verge of.  Tomorrow, we’ll pack the camper van and embark on 1) exciting adventures, of a 2) very great/large/difficult and impressive nature.

I think what we are all on the horizon of, will be defining. It will define us as people. It will define us as friends, and outline our tolerance.  It will twist our arms, our thoughts, our fate. It will test our patience, resilience, optimism and organization.  75 days on the road, tracing the entire coast of Australia with your fiancé and dear friend in a rented vehicle for once really deserves the word: epic.

Posts may be few and far between from here on out (as if they could get any less frequent, you say!). Internet access and cell phone reception willing, I’ll log our adventures as we go. With any luck, these next couple months will regale you with thrilling and endearing recounts of our travel.

Wish us luck!

Whit-fun-days

Well, just when the blog started taking a turn for boring-ville, Steve and I got some more visitors! And more visitors means more travelling. Which means I get to brag about some super cool stuff we’ve done in the past few weeks. If you get jealous while you’re reading, keep in mind that I’ve just started getting over a horrendous bout of the flu and didn’t leave the apartment for 3 days straight. (Nothing comes for free!)

This adventure starts with the jolly ol’ Wignalls coming to town! My parents respectfully waited a couple of weeks after my sister’s visit before they hopped on an aircraft and made their way down under. Once again, our tiny studio apartment became teeming with life! Kind of like an urban version of the Great Barrier Reef that we were about to embark on, suitcases, dirty socks, loose change and an endless trail of empty wine bottles were peeking out of every spare nook and cranny.  We spent a few days shuffling those two around Melbourne’s hot spots – including a well-worth-the-wait meal at Mamasita’s - but Friday was the day we were all waiting for - the Whitsundays!

Friday morning we skeptically hopped onto Tiger airways and zoomed to Mackay Airport, where we jumped in our rental car and struck out across the sugar cane fields in search of the ocean. It wasn’t far away at all, and when we arrived in Airlie beach, the lure of cold beer and a sausage sizzle drove us into the tent of some celebrating sailboat racers. Even though we didn’t fit in with the seaworthy group, nobody seemed to mind. Sitting with a view of the harbor and sipping a cold one is really where the vacation started.

The sun sunk into the hills behind the sailboats and it was time for our departure on the Anaconda III. This was a sailboat that the four of us would call home for the next three days! However, when we climbed aboard the vessel and were introduced to our cabin, we were wondering exactly how we were going to survive the next few days at all! The room, quoting “2 double beds” were actually stacked on top of each other like bunk beds, which were directly beside a tiny shower/toilet arrangement and a 2x2 square of floor that all four of us could not stand on at the same time. We prayed for good weather so we wouldn't have to spend too much time in our quarters as the Anaconda patted away from the shore.

As it turns out, the hilarity of the cabin turned out to be the joke of the trip, and luckily, the worst thing we had to deal with. We lucked out with gorgeous weather, calm water, and tons of wildlife. No one got sea sick, and they didn’t run out of beer! All of us enjoyed snorkeling, tanning, and drinking VB’s throughout the days. One of the most fascinating parts of the trip had to be jumping off the side of the ship, and swimming around with the batfish, giant trevally, and Maori wrasse that loitered around the back of the boat. I think they were just interested in the leftover bologna from lunch, but we’ll say that the big wrasse enjoyed having a scratch behind the ears!

The Great Barrier Reef was just as stunning as you’d imagine; pillars of coral with thousands of fish darting in and out, beautiful colours, and looking out into the opaque blue of the water as the ocean floor dropped away. A few times, I duck-dove under and could hear the humpback whales singing and moaning in the deep. We saw an endless amount of those guys breaching off in the distance from our boat. The sight became so common that people stopped getting out their cameras to capture the moment, and just reveled in it instead. We saw sea turtles, a dugong, and my parents were privy to witness two manta rays!

With the golden opportunity right in front of us, Steve and I couldn't resist going on a SCUBA dive. Although we aren't licensed, there is an option to go on a guided swim with a professional dive instructor from the boat at a safe depth for beginners. It was amazing how heavy the gear felt on land, and when we tipped backwards over the side of the dinghy, became weightless in the ocean. It was such a cool feeling gliding among the reef, being able to stay in that world so much longer than usual. We saw a small white-tipped reef shark (and lived to tell about it!), and petted a massive sea cucumber. I think we even found Nemo (aka a brightly coloured clown-fish)! As our air dwindled down, we slowly rose to the surface and back into the light of the breathing-world. It was a really interesting experience, and strangely calming in a way. Steve and I definitely want to try it again – however, we may be spoiled from having our first trip in the GBR!

Our last stop was at the famous Whitehaven beach – sand so fine and high in silica that it can clean your jewelry! We played in the ocean, tossing a Frisbee and lapping up our last rays of Queensland sunshine.

The three days ended with our sun-soaked bodies hobbling off of the deck, hugging our new friends goodbye and looking forward to a regular hot shower in our hotel room. From Airlie, my parents flew to Sydney to taste a little more of what Australia has to offer, while Steve and I returned to Melbourne to work. Another adventure wasn’t too far behind though! The next weekend everyone was reunited and off in another rental car heading towards the Mornington Peninsula!

This weekend was of a much different nature, but just as much of a good time. When we arrived at our villa on the golf course, we could barely stifle a laugh at the sheer size of the place! We basically had a townhouse to ourselves! Going from the extreme miniature of the cabin on the boat, to separate rooms, king size beds, and a kitchen as big as our apartment back in Melbourne!

The weekend consisted of indulging in the nearby natural hot springs, a round of golf at the renowned Cape Shanck (for my parents), an afternoon of wine tastings (where my mother got more than she desired of pinot noir and chardonnay!), and a home cooked meal of kangaroo on the barbie! The trip rounded out with an ongoing tournament of Euchre, which I reluctantly admit the boys won (until next time!)  *By the way Steven, if you order your partner up, you go alone!!

 It has been surreal having so many people come visit us while we’re living down here, and I’m really glad my parents both made it this time! It was nice to see them travel again – something I hope they continue to do in their retirement together. Clearly, Steve and I have caught the travel bug, and I've heard it’s contagious. I think it would be great to do some more family tripping around the globe in the future! First stop Australia, next, who knows! 

A Dinner to Rival My Mum's

I grew up in a family of foodies. My Dad likes to BBQ. Riley loves to bake. Kacy likes to make scientific experiments involving unlikely ingredients. My Mum loves to cook.

And boy, does she cook.

(I think Steven may have asked me to marry him so he could keep coming back for dinner!)

Having an epicure with a European background as a mother really made dinnertime popular. We were never the kids who had to be coerced and threatened to be home for supper. If anything, we would invite our friends over for dinner so we didn’t have to miss it ourselves!

Okay, so you get the picture – I love my Mama’s food. So when Steve and I went out to eat on Wednesday to Bluestone, I had my knife and fork ready for battle. Steve works downstairs at the bar, but the upstairs restaurant is noted citywide for its fresh, tasty ingredients, imaginative dishes, and ideal aperitifs. In the end, it didn’t disappoint. In fact, Bluestone revealed itself as a worthy adversary to Mum’s home cookin’.

I was salivating with anticipation; the warm, fresh baked bread, olive oil from the local Grampian mountain range and beetroot infused rock salt happened across our table to hold us over while the chefs prepared the first of our 8 courses.

First up to bat was a magenta coloured tuna sashimi paired with finger lime “caviar” and wasabi sorbet. Hervey Bay herb-encrusted scallops, still sleeping delicately in their shells, followed as the second.

The seafood party didn’t end there. Next was calamari stuffed with prawn and chorizo sausage, lying on a bed brushed with lines of pesto and it’s own ink, and topped with the crispy, buttery tentacles.

At this point, Steve and I weren’t even full yet. We were having too much fun pretending we were wealthy people eating in a schmancy restaurant, and all of the delicious wine was just whetting our appetites. The timing of the plates’ arrival was a tease – just long enough for you to start getting antsy for the next bite and your imagination running wild as to what it would be. It was hard not to scarf it down once the surprise arrived!

To cleanse our pallet for the next dish, we were served a bite of refreshing broccolini sorbet. (Which, I thought, tasted like a dreamy combination of green tea and sweet pea.)

Cured, spiced sirloin and a hearty, nutty-flavoured winter bean soup started to assuage our appetites. Interestingly, this dish was served with a cold, sparkling Shiraz - I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not since my taste buds were thrown from the peculiarity. Of course, I drank it all trying to decide.

The deal-closer to this long line of hedonistic fare was a plate of rare wallaby, with a splash of Jamaican-themed capsicum sauce. The wine served with this was my favourite by far – however I forget the name! I’ll have to get Steve to find out because it was delicious! Then you can try it at home!

After the wallaby, I was almost too full for dessert. Almost!

In strawberry, lime and macadamia infused glory, the creamy cheesecake served as the finale. If I hadn’t been raised with manners I would have licked the plate. Actually, it was really hard not to, considering my inhibitions had previously been swallowed with the 8 glasses of wine that came with dinner.

Steve and I wobbled home with satiated smiles on our faces, and stretched bellies. For only the second time since I’ve been in Australia, I had found a dinner to rival my Mum's.