Okay, I've stopped listening to Tom Waits temporarily. Ergo, this entry will have a half-step less foaming insanity. Pardon that Pardon "That" too, by the way.

The Therapy of Surf

Continuing in my appreciation of Australia's lust for sport, I thought I'd test my luck out on Byron Bay for some surfing. Granted, you must know by now that I'm a terrible swimmer, but with a little encouragement from the flotation potential of a wet suit and a huge fiberglass board, I was ready to take the challenge of my first three hours of surfing. How did I do?

Proposition #1: I think I never have to salt my food again, for all the intake I had in those three hours.

Proposition #2: One who has anger management issues need only be forced to surf for a day. In that day he will curse and flail at the forces of nature all he wants but will only exhaust himself until he's transformed into a peacenik dopefiend.

I've endured some of the most anger-filled three hours of my life and now here I am, mellowed out beyond recognition and devoid of my usual cognition. Several smacks to the head by the raging waves off the eastern coast of Australia will do that to you. Imagine being there for the first time in these waves, thoughts on the very real legend of Great White Monsters, as you're guided along by an Israeli-Australian (which I might add is probably one of the strangest accents I have ever heard). It is with some sense of luck that I admit I made it up on the board several times, but certainly not consistently. All in all, a very worthwhile first day, but I'm not sure if I'll ever do it again, unless I need some therapy.

Crikey, She Bit My Arm Off

Afterwards, the bus took us to a zoo, where I could firsthand see the most venemous snakes of Australia. Then we saw some feeding of the crocodiles. By chance, this also happened to be the Australian Zoo that Steve Irwin works for, of television fame for Crocodile Hunter - the guy everyone expects to be eaten by something one day. He wasn't doing the show today, but it was still helpful to see just how easily a croc can sneak up on you. Duly noted, you crafty swamp monster you.

Crocs are just one of those things that no one calls cute. I kind of like them, not wanting anything to do with cute myself. But some of you might have declared me cute, should you have witnessed my activities in the aviary section of the zoo. It just so happens I had a gleeful reunion with the bird I hereby name the flappertail. Last I had seen one was in Paihia while on a hike in New Zealand. I love these birds. Their most noticeable trait is their tail. Most birds only move their tail vertically. This one sort of wags it left and right slowly, while staring up at you. They're usually quite tame, and this one would let me walk to within a meter of it. When it flies, it has a strangely low-speed flight full of ups and downs and strange bends. I suppose to some, they might just seem like inquisitive tame black sparrows with funny tails. But once you figure out its game, you'll be a fan too. We have a symbiotic relationship, these fellers and me. I do an awkward highstep dirt-kickin' circle dance, and little flappertail sits by the side wagging until it spots the right moment, and then races on foot across the ground when it notices I've panicked an ant or a termite or somesuch out of the ground and has its little snack. I performed about three of these looney circle dances until I got a weird look from a groundskeeper, and I had to sadly bid adieu to my old friend the flappertail. I hope I see another one again soon.

No. I'm not cute. Koalas are cute.

Yes, there I was also introduced to the ball of idiosyncrasies that is the koala. These cute little guys are actually just wacko. They might as well be gremlins, on some souped up version of ritalin. They live off only the most poisonous of eucalypti leaves, which then take their stomachs most of the day to digest, and actually work in a negative energy investment. It'd be akin to us eating lettuce for all of our meals, every day. As such, they need to sleep for about 20 hours a day. Then they get up for four hours, prop themselves against some branches and recline while eating more poisonous leaves. Wacko I say. Teddy bears out of a Lewis Carroll novel. But yes, cute.

Speaking of wacko creatures, I was reading Hamlet at the hostel patio today (since you've got me reading such things, Kate) ... and I was hit with a sickening splat across my chest from a grasshopper the size of my thumb, maybe a bit more. Despite the sound and the kamikaze velocity, it sat there staring up at me twiddling its mandlibles, ready to hop to the next solid object. I felt violated and used. Then the possums started romping around the trees with babies on their backs. I had to realize then that I was in Queensland - animal country. Viva la fauna.

As an aside, I looked out to the ocean today, I tried to calculate my angles to look out roughly where Vancouver was, and Cucao, Chile, and Cape Reinga, NZ. In each of these places I had stared from the other side of these waters. And then I realized, for almost any time I saw the ocean, I have very distinctive memories of the beach, even the time of day I was there. Am I just crazy or is it easier to remember vistas that are on oceanfront than those inland?

Good a place as any. Full stop.