"Wipeout" Doesn't Even Begin to Describe it...

Warm tears spilled down my face as I dragged myself out of the ocean and up the bridge to camp, thankful for the unrelenting rain that was still spattering from the sky, a watery camouflage to mask my choking sobs.

It doesn’t fucking make sense. I swore angrily at myself, unable to grasp the reasons behind my piss poor performance in this morning’s lesson. Two times I had stood up for longer than a couple of seconds. Two times in a goddamn hour and a half.

Pathetic.

“I don’t understand, you should be turning by now,” John had said to me, after what seemed like my 257^th wipeout. He’d meant well, he’d wanted to rile me up, help me channel my anger and frustration into surfing. But I was too far gone. I felt like a failure.

The lesson had been only half finished, but he’d seen the exhaustion nestling in behind my eyes and sent me out of the water before I could get hurt, or worse, grow more disheartened.

“You and I are going to get in a lot of arguments,” he’d said yesterday, a comforting smile painted across his face. “Because I think I have more faith in your feet than you do.”

His words played over in my mind as I stood eyes closed under the shower, willing the scalding water to wash away my salty tears. I wanted to have faith in my feet, I really did. I wanted to “just jump up” and “look forward” and “keep your weight over your toes” and “don’t think about it” and ahhhh there was just so much to remember and I couldn’t. Stop. Thinking.

I collapsed into bed with heavy eyes and a gloomy spirit, and fell asleep the instant my head felt the soft give of my candy-striped pillow.

***

“It’s really nice outside,” Curtis said, waking me up. I’d been asleep for a few hours and I could see the sun streaming across a bright blue sky through the window in our cosy bedroom. “Want to come for a surf? See if you feel better?”

I rolled over, away from his touch. “I hate the ocean,” I mumbled, still groggy and feeling no less miserable.

But as he changed into his boardies and pulled on his favorite Rip Curl rashie I bought for $7 at a thrift store in Melbourne, I wondered if maybe a surf was what I needed. A chance to put back together the pieces of my shattered ego, and remind myself that I actually could surf.

I changed in a hurry and followed Curtis out to the surfboard racks. After selecting the two best boards and rummaging around for some wax, we headed out to the water, and I finally caught some waves.

It wasn’t my best surf, the waves were messy and, though small in size, came pounding in one after another making it difficult to paddle out. But I stood up. I stood, and I turned, and I kept my weight over my toes and my gaze on the tree line in front of me. And even though I’m pretty sure I was still “thinking about it,” I could feel the confidence creeping cautiously back into my body.

I didn’t realize when I signed up, but in addition to a surf course, the Academy is going to be an all out war inside my head. Each day—each session—a battle of its own, some (like this morning’s) resulting in mental destruction, and others more victorious.

I am not a quitter, but I’ve come to realize I can be easily discouraged, and I have a feeling that tackling this mental obstacle will be my most difficult undertaking in the eight weeks to come.

So to my brain I say, bring it on.

ts…

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"I Surf Because... What Else Would I Do in My Backyard?"

So there are some things I need to finish. Updates that beg desperately to be made. Stories that nag at me, pulling impatiently at the hems of my mind. Post me tomorrow, they say, tugging. But I have things to do, I protest, stomping my foot. I have a life to live, a soul to search, and so in turn, this blog suffers and has remained highly uninformative about my journey. And for that I apologize, to the both of us.

The missing posts will materialize (hopefully) and the stories with endings untold will arrive (in time) at their conclusions.

But right now, I want to tell you about TODAY.

After weeks of waffling over whether or not to stay here at Spot X, after warm, salty days of trying to sort out a plan without the help of my ever-trustworthy To Do Lists (because what did I even have to put on them?), and after nights spent dreaming about the thrill of adventure and tossing in hot nightmares over the binding chains of responsibility and time… Curtis and I decided to stay and begin a two-month long Surf Academy to become qualified surf instructors.

How random is that? And yet, fitting.

Day One of (Surf) School

There is supposed to be a beach here...

Here there was a volleyball net. Oh ya, and a field.

The rain pelted down from an unrelenting sky as we huddled around what seemed to be the only dry picnic table in the eating area, plates piled high with eggs, bacon, pancakes, watermelon and an assortment of other breakfast tidbits. “There’s no way he’ll make us go surfing in this weather, right?” one of us wondered aloud. A dozen heads turned in unison towards the ocean to watch the angry waves, murky brown with storm debris, crash chaotically into one another.

Around 8am, our instructor John strolled into the eating area, totally unfazed by the messy weather. He shook his head casually, sending beads of water flying off the hood of his sleek Rip Curl rain jacket. “All right, let’s get into it,” he said in a thick Aussie accent, and waved us inside the adjoining movie room.  

For the first couple of hours we trudged through usual start-of-a-new-class obligations; paperwork was passed around, names and details were recorded, class structures and schedules were outlined, and tea and coffee was sipped noiselessly as the rain pounded on the roof, stubbornly refusing to yield.

“Who’s ever been caught in a rip?” He asked, watching a couple of hands shoot up in affirmation. “Well that’s what we’re going to do today.” His voice was matter-of-fact but his smile was cheeky and I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that staying for the Academy had been the right decision.

We sprinted back to our cabins, speed our only ally against the driving rain, and changed into our boardies and bathing suits. I struggled into my skin-tight thermal, a moisture wicking long sleeve surfing top I bought on impulse in Byron Bay (which has surprisingly turned out to be one of the most useful purchases I’ve made in Oz) as the rest of the crew wrestled their bodies into rain-soaked wetsuits.

We grabbed surfboards and made our way down to the creek that feeds into the ocean, which, though calm and stagnant on most days, was raging wildly this morning and looked very much like a Class V rapids. The rain stung my face and my exposed legs, like being pelted with handfuls of pointy icicle tips, an assault on my already chilled skin.

“Mind that your leg rope doesn’t get caught on the rocks,” John cautioned, before tossing his surfboard into the rushing water and launching his body on top of it. In a matter of seconds, he was flying towards the ocean, grinning wildly and beckoning us in for the ride.

Like penguins on the edge of an iceberg, we tumbled in one by one after our fearless leader, leaping onto our boards and into the vacuum of muddy water. The lesson this morning was to get a feel for the way the water moves. We rode the rip out to the waves, then turned the board around and, while still lying on our stomachs, rode the waves back to where we entered the rip.

It was a chair lift-ski slope cycle of sorts. Only, more salt and less clothing.

It was unbelievably fun, and I laughed for just about the entire hour in the water, despite being tossed around like I was stuck inside a really wet tumble dryer. When it was time to go, I rode my last wave in to the beach, and struggled to pick up my board. The wind howled back, nearly knocking me over as I fought my way to the bridge back to camp.

“I’m going to leave my leg rope around my ankle,” I yelled over the elements to Anne and Anna as they looped their leggies over their boards. “Knowing me the wind will catch the board and I’d have to run after it!”

I reached the bridge shortly behind Anna, and watched as she waded up to her waist before making it safely up the stairs. I stepped into the water and felt the current rush around me, threatening to carry me back out to sea. I approached the bridge steps and passed the nose of my board into Anna’s outstretched hands, and in that instant, my legs buckled under the weight of the rushing water.

I struggled for balance, grasping for stability with my feet, and clawing at rocks with my hands until soon the leg rope grew taught and my left ankle was jerked to the surface by the tension. 

I looked up to see Anna doubled over, arms outstretched and clinging with all their might to the nose of my surfboard, to which, 15 feet away, I was still attached by the leg. I exploded into a fit of giggles, which, of course, made standing all the more difficult, but eventually (and not so gracefully, I would say) I managed to climb to my feet and wade to the bridge, and to safety.

I am salty, sandy, and soaked to the bone, but above all, I am filled with excitement and anticipation about learning to surf and about where this course might take me. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to be postponing real life for just a little longer.

Emblazoned in bright pink on the back of my Spot X hoodie is the company slogan. Find Your Mojo, it says. And that’s exactly what I plan to do.

So much love,

the traveling stahr...

** Title quote courtesy of Andy Irons

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Gone Walkabout: the Beginning of our Epic Aussie Adventure

Hello!

Yes, I am still alive.

And no, I haven't “cashed in [my] airline tickets to buy goofy hats and a sheep ranch and given up on returning to North America,” a concern expressed by my dad in a recent e-mail regarding my ongoing “walkabout” (though the idea does sound rather enticing). If Curtis could stand to be away from his family for another year, I won't lie, we would likely consider the prospect.

I am writing this first bit on a bus, on the way to a cattle station in the eastern outback town of Kroombit (random, I know, and oddly pertinent to the previous paragraph). But I'm going to take a wild guess here and assume there will be no internet and I will in fact be posting this when we get into Rainbow Beach, our next stop on the coast, and the gateway to the famous Fraser Island.

(Ok, well I didn't get time to post in Rainbow... or Noosa... or Brisbane. Or Sufer's Paradise... which, ironically, is known for its poor waves, overcrowded beaches and generally bad surfing. Despite having free internet at our next stop, the bustling hippie town of Byron Bay, I didn't find time to finish writing & post this there, either! We are now on the Coffs Coast at this little surf camp/hostel called Spot X, working for accommodation, yummy food, and endless surfing in a town called Arrawarra... but I'm getting ahead of myself.)

So... where did I leave off? Ah yes, the tragic llama incident and baby Francesca, among other updates. Basically (I never did figure out how to make that google map thingy, so if you're interested, you'll have to input the points yourself) our journey over the past two months has consisted of something to this effect:

LEG 1

Melbourne, Victoria to Adelaide, South Australia for three days. Highlights include the Great Ocean Road and the Grampians (a Eucalyptus Rainforest and National Park).

The GOR was just as beautiful the second time around (it actually worked out cheaper to tour it again than it would have been to bypass it and fly straight onto Adelaide). Also, the trip was far more relaxing as a three day tour than it had been as the one day trip that we took back in March.

We used our day off in Adelaide wisely, South Australia's capital being a fairly small and boring town, and took a day trip into the Barossa Valley wine region. As of late, Curtis has been fascinated with wine making, so this was particularly interesting for him. And plus, who doesn't love being drunk before 10am? We visited five wineries, (including the renowned Orlando Winery, home of Jacob's Creek), had about six or seven tasting glasses at each location, and befriended a lovely Aussie/German couple from Melbourne. All in all, a delicious day.

The facebook photo album for our trip from Melbourne to Adelaide is here.

Alrighty, I think that's enough for now! I'm getting into a regular schedule here at Spot X, which should translate to more frequent posts. Or more surfing. One of the two.

Lots of love,

the traveling stahr...

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G'day Mate! (A Short Update)

Ok. So. I had FULLY intended to post frequent (dare I say daily?) updates as Curtis and I set off to trek about the Australian continent. Little did I know there would be no internet until now (or phone signal for that matter). And there is noooo way I can sum up the past 10 days in one post, especially seeing as we have to be up again in 5 hours to hop on a bus heading to Darwin. Hooray for 4am wake-up calls...

At the moment we are in Alice Springs, a beautiful, weird town, smack dab in the middle of Australia. The Outback dirt is rusty red and the sky is bigger than I have ever seen. I could stay for a long, long time. But alas, we journey North tomorrow.

Out of all the (over 2,700) photos I've taken in the past few weeks, this brings back one of my most favorite memories. I can still feel her soft, silky fur in my hands, and her tiny kangaroo breath on my face as she kissed me goodbye. Meet baby Francesca:

In other animal news, I now hate llamas. ALL I wanted to do was say hello. And then this furry monster spit on my face. And then Curtis fell over laughing as I drowned in embarrassment and bits of grass and pukey llama loogie.

Gross.

On another note, one of the positives of always getting up early has been the breathtaking sunrises we've seen. We pulled the bus over one morning as six o'clock slowly gave way to seven, and experienced this:

But the most beautiful sunrise yet, was watching the changing colors of the famous Uluru. Expect a full and detailed blog post with about a billion more photos later on, but for now, a teaser:

Alrighty, my creaky single bed in my 8 bed hostel room is calling my name. Time for sleep!

Lots of love, and more updates coming soon. And by soon I mean whenever I next get internet... which could be never. But no matter, I don't think I have ever been happier.

the traveling stahr...

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(I Can't Wait to Be) On the Road Again

It is time.

Time to move and go and travel and progress and explore and see and do. Because we have been in Melbourne now for nearly five months now. And, well... I can see my breath in the morning. In my apartment.

So, for the past few weeks I have been planning. And although my head came dangerously close to detonation during this process, we have just forked over the final payment of our Totally Amazing and Cool Australian Outback and East Coast Adventure (TACAOECA for short).

And we leave on Saturday!

When I figure out how, I will make one of those fun Google Maps things that shows where we’re headed, but I think “everywhere” (except for West Australia) is a fairly accurate description to start.

We’re essentially making a big ’ole circle. From our starting point in Melbourne, we are headed west to Adelaide. Then we’ll tack north through the exciting and dangerous (probably not, but let me dream, ok?) Australian Outback (Mmm... Hugh Jackman...). We’ll pass Alice Springs (where we’ll see the famous Ayers Rock, or Uluru) and continue up to Darwin. At the end of July we’ll fly to Cairns and then begin our journey down the East Coast on a Hop-On Hop-Off bus all the way back to Melbourne, finishing the whole tour in about two months.

Ooo, I’m getting excited just writing about it!

I ended up booking the entire trip with this amazing company called Peterpans Adventure Travel. For those of you who have been with me from the start, this is the same travel company that gave me a free trip down the Great Ocean Road for winning a limbo contest at a bar.

I have always believed that when you do something yourself, time permitting, you have a better chance of getting a cheaper price, especially if you’re flexible with your dates. A handful of phone calls to hostels can result in a great nightly rate, and a few dedicated hours online can often yield the least expensive flight. (My personal fav sites are Expedia for domestic and Cheap-O Air for international... but remember, these websites often charge hidden convenience fees—even if they say they don’t!—so once I find a cheap flight, I check that airline’s own website for the base fare).

But with Peterpans, not only did we get nearly $1000 off the actual price of the trip, they threw in dozens of freebies we can redeem along the way. Free surf lessons, free dinner and drinks at nearly every stop, even a free didgeridoo lesson! This means (fingers crossed) we won’t have to spend too much money along the way.

I'll keep you posted on how true that last statement actually ends up being. To be honest, I’m preeeetty sure we’re going to come back to Melbourne flat broke...

I could always sell my soul. Or become a lady of the night. (I hear they’re good at limbo.)

Love always,
the traveling stahr...

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Day 27. This is La Vie en Rose

This particular shift was quite possibly the best I’ve had yet at this soul-sucking restaurant. And not thanks to the mini-lecture I received from Bashir after intentionally leaving an item off a table’s check because he had treated me like a child earlier on in the evening.

Little girls can play sneaky games too, sir.

As usual, I didn’t want to leave for work. And as usual, I thought of a million other things I could be doing (but in reality, would probably not be doing) with my time. Cooking, reading, smoothie-making, scrapbooking, laundry (ok, that one is a stretch). Etcetera, Etcetera.

About an hour into the shift, my hands raw from washing rags and wiping already clean tables, a lovely group of families came and sat in my section, to celebrate a birthday. Four beautiful little girls argued over who got to sit next to Aunt Suzie, and which one could play with the rubber eraser collection. A few minutes later, though, they settled: Suzie in the middle, and rubber erasers all around.

After taking their order I returned to the table with bottles of tap water. The littlest angel, kneeling backwards on her chair, held her hand out to me.

“Do you have a question for the nice waitress?” Her mum suggested. She nodded her head, sending her soft brown curls dancing about her face.

“What’s your name?” She asked in a tiny voice. “Lauren,” I replied, soliciting hers.

“Hannah. Mmm, what a pretty name!” I said. She nodded again, she knew that already. “How old are you, Hannah?”

Three tiny fingers uncurled themselves from her wee fist. “Three?” I exclaimed. “You’re getting big!” Her curls bobbed up and down. She knew that already, too.

From behind me I heard the dreaded “Laureen.” Ugh. I hated that voice.

I headed over to Bashir, whose disapproving eyes glared back at me. “Laureen. You leave that table now to the boys, a new one has come.” I looked over at the group of newcomers. They hadn’t even taken their seats yet and he was already accusing me of negligence.

No matter. I brought menus to the table of fifteen, noticing immediately the physical manifestations of Down Syndrome on the majority of the adults. One particularly small man began clapping when I handed him a menu. Another, larger guest smiled so big I thought his face would expand. “Thaaaank you,” he said. The woman with the lazy eye was dancing in her seat, and the balding man next to her began playing his air trumpet to La Vie en Rose, which was streaming softly through overhead speakers.

I smiled, caught up in the overwhelming surge of happiness emanating from the table.

The caregivers began collecting food orders, and I brought over a couple of pitchers of Diet Pepsi, setting one in front of a rather nervous looking man. He frowned. “I-I-I want lemonade. Wh-wh-where’s the lemonade?”

“It’s coming soon,” a caregiver soothed, attempting to avoid a panic attack in the restaurant. The frightened look on his face told me that he wasn’t reassured. I headed to the bar to pick up the pitcher of 7 Up (what Aussies call Lemonade), and brought it over to him.

“Here you go!” I reached over and filled his glass, watching his upward slanted eyes grow wide and a small, timid smile creep across his face. He looked at me briefly, gratitude in the depth of his eyes, before looking down to enjoy his bubbling drink. I felt indescribably wonderful.

I ordered their food and then went to deliver the birthday cake to my first table, after receiving the signal from one of the family members. Dessert and coffee came and went, and pretty soon it was time to bid goodbye to little Hannah. I knelt down to her level as she ran towards me, wrapping me up in her arms. “Goodbye Lauren!” She exclaimed, and bolted to the door with as much energy as her three-year old legs could muster.

I headed over to my table of fifteen, and began clearing plates. “Thank you!” I said, with overt gratitude, as each guest handed me their empty dinner dishes. The trumpet player, eager to help, began handing me side plates, knives, and forks, one by one. “Thank you. You’re so helpful!” I exclaimed. He beamed with happiness.

The woman with the lazy eye started stacking glasses, giggling almost uncontrollably as she placed each one atop the other. “Look how tall I can make them!” Eager to prevent disaster, I held on to the stack as it grew taller, and taller with every glass and giggle. At about two feet, I congratulated her on her amazing skyscraper and, laughing along at this point, unstacked the glasses and took them to the dishwasher.

Finally, it came time to say goodbye. I held some of their small hands in mine, thanking them for coming, and bidding them a safe flight back to Perth. But as the group approached the door, the nervous man was coming out of the restrooms upstairs, straggling behind. He stood at the top of the staircase and I waved. “Thank you for coming!” But he didn’t move. He looked at me, looked down at the stairs, and then back at me, his mouth open and lost for words.

“Do you need a hand down the stairs?” I asked. He nodded, so I walked towards him, unsure exactly what to do. Would he take my help? Or would he want to hold on to someone he trusted; should I get one of his caregivers? I walked up towards him and offered my hand. “Would you like me to walk down the stairs with you?” Another nod. He reached out and gripped my hand, and we descended together, step by step.

I don’t know that much about Down Syndrome, and I don’t have any eloquent conclusions to make about the disorder with which to end this post. But I do know that they warmed my heart that night, and that the three caregivers who spend their days and nights concerned about their wellbeing and happiness are truly wonderful people.

And it’s nights like these I love. Though they are few and far between, they almost make me second guess my plan to leave… Almost.

With all the love I have,
the traveling stahr…

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Day 26. My Brief Stint in Advertising

[E.D. So I was going to skip the following bit of my Tales from Down Under the Table. After all, we’re leaving Melbourne in just one week and I figured I’d just jump to the nitty gritty details of how I umm… quit. Sort of. But this is too embarrassing good to exclude.]

There is a commercial that plays on television here. A couple of talking Aussie crows intentionally make some noise in a tree, and a man (whose glass door has been previously polished with Windex) attempts to walk outside to investigate and… you guessed it… smacks right into the door. One of the crows falls out of the tree, laughing.

It’s a pretty mundane and unlikely commercial. Or I thought it was, until I uh... (I think you can see where this is going).

Let me back up. It was nearing the end of the night and I was carrying a server tray. A tray containing one latté, one (poorly made) Mojito, and one Cosmopolitan, sloshing precariously in a tall martini glass.

I wanted to be anywhere but there. My mind had already packed its bags and was standing on the platform of Gate Get the Hell Out. My eyelids were threatening to close, and my feet were sore beneath the weight of my constantly upright body, as I walked towards the always-open front door.

(And when I say always open, I don’t mean mostly open, or open during peak hours. I mean I had never seen the door closed.)

I headed, zombie-like and mildly depressed, to the patio outside.

SMACK.

The tray that had seconds before been balanced on my right hand struck the shiny, devious, straight-out-of-that-stupid-crow-commercial closed door and tipped upwards. Shock, embarrassment, and horror covered my face and body.

Oh, and also a latté, a (poorly made) Mojito, and a Cosmopolitan.

I miraculously managed to catch the glassware before it went crashing to the floor. But as for my pride? Nope. It was very much on the ground and soaked in a gross cranberry-alcohol-mint-coffee mixture.

Seriously. This was worse than that one time I bumped Meg at the pub and managed to overturn onto her, a tray of three glasses of wine, two beers and an assortment of mixed drinks. Because after the initial shock, (and resulting wet chill) Meg was laughing it off. Somehow I doubted this slip up would be received in the same manner.

I looked over at Bashir, who was out of customer view, and to my surprise, he was scolding another employee, John, over the spill. I hurried over. “It was my fault,” I said, giving John the chance to slide away.

“I know,” Bashir turned to me, daggers in his eyes.

The mess was cleaned, the drinks remade, and in moments the night moved on, as the night is known to do. As the restaurant slowed, I joined John and Anna by the kitchen. The three of us made small talk and drank water, thinking we were hidden from view.

“Laureeen.” An eerie chill crept up my spine. I set down my water glass, and headed over to Bashir. He gripped me by the shoulders. Ew, get your gross hands off me.

“Don’t listen to them,” he said, referring to Anna and John. “They’re not helpful. They’re pushing you to make mistakes, DON’T YOU SEE?” His vile breath floated down around my face, and I turned away, nodding, confused. What is this, a goddamn game of survivor? Did I pick the wrong alliances? Will I be voted off at tribal council? Oh, please, please vote me off at Tribal Council…

Later on, taking notice of my depressed demeanor, John scribbled a smiley face on a spare napkin and held it up across the room. I sighed, and gave him my biggest grin.

Life is meant for happiness. Maybe not for everyone, and certainly not always. But most of the time, I strive for high spirits. And this job? This demeaning, suffocating, soulless job? Was not making me happy.

I needed out. And I had a plan.

Until next time,
the traveling stahr...

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