Having spent an amazing 24 hours in New England National Park, I headed back to the coast and stopped at Scott’s Head. Feeling indulgent, I booked a site in the caravan park, looking forward to a hot shower and all the mod cons. It’s civilisation, right? What can go wrong? Well…
My swag was pitched under a tree. It was the only fruiting tree in the area. I spent the night being bombarded by bat guano, followed by shrieking lorikeets in the pre-dawn. Fed up with the patter, I emerged from my sleep and dragged the swag away from ground zero. As I pushed the metal peg back into the soil, I felt the join give way, immediately followed by a lovely burning sensation as the newly-broken metal spike stabbed into the webbing of my thumb. Cursing, I grabbed my camera and shuffled the 200m or so up to the headland to check the surf.
It was crap.
Oh well. There was some interesting mist rising from the ocean; the cold morning air was meeting the warm spray of the small closeouts in the bay, making it look like smoke was rising from the surf. I raised my camera to take a shot… nothing. I’d left the battery on charge the night before. Fighting an urge to throw a tantrum, I walked back, retrieved the battery, and took a few pictures.
OK, cool, all good. I wandered around a bit, snapping away, feeling a bit better that my hand had stopped bleeding and the morning was another nice one. I spotted a photo op of a fisherman on the rocks, stepped forward to take the shot… twang! My thong snapped. The trusty, comfy pair of thongs I’d relied on for two years let me down in my time of need!
Feeling increasingly grumpy, I scuffed back through the dirt to my car and fixed a bowl of cereal for breakfast. As I reflected on the morning – being crapped on by lorikeets, stabbing my hand, forgetting the battery and breaking my thong – I had to laugh. Then I dropped my bowl of cereal on the ground.
It’s a good thing there were no children present.