LAGOON HOPPING, AIRLIE

I’d had enough of Sydney, the noise, the mess of it all. So I packed a bag and flew north, where the air hung thick and the sea flashed turquoise beneath the sun. Airlie Beach. A mate had a couch and a loose idea of time, which suited me fine. The days there felt swollen, humid, a bit drunk.

The lagoon was a pretty sort of relief, bright and still as glass, but I couldn’t bring myself to dive in. Too many people. All that flesh moving in circles. I like a stretch of water that’s mine, quiet and wide. The ocean sat right there, glittering like a dare, but the Irukandji had claimed it. Tiny ghosts with venomous grace.

The weirdest night, and maybe the one that still makes me grin, was when we paid five bucks to see Vanilla Ice at the local club. 2008, I think. God knows why he was there, or why we went. Like watching a memory decay in real time. So we slipped out to the beer garden, sticky air, smoke curling through the palms, the clink of rum and dry and playful arguments over nothing. It wasn’t much, but it was memorable. For a while, the world stopped pressing so hard.