G'day.

Here's some of what happened to me in Australia. It's a bit of a long one. For those of you who can't be bothered sticking with it (I know who you are, Cluny Venables) here's a summary:

1) I'm in Australia.
2) The living is good in Byron Bay.
3) I can surf! And despite record numbers of shark sightings, I still have all my limbs. (Even the ones I don't use very often).
4) A poem and a lesson.

Sydney, Australia

Feeling it!

So from Cape Town I fly into Sydney and my first stop is the work place of my old pal Sarah Canet. She works for Collette Dinnigan, an Australian fashion designer (famous for her knickers). You remember Sarah; we were boyfriend and girlfriend at college (when she wasn't gallivanting around exotic corners of the world with her other, richer, boyfriend).

Anyway, clearly she's been feeling guilty, and she invites me to stay with her. We spend a couple of days catching up before she jets off to Paris for a work assignment (it's just like the good old days) leaving me with the keys to her flat. And very nice it is too. In Potts Point (central Sydney), with a view of the harbor bridge, the opera house, and with heaps of buffed young men in tight t-shirts sipping lattes in the local cafes.

(Note to self: why in my grand tour - San Francisco, Cape Town, Sydney - do I seem to be ticking off the gay capitals of the world? Gay guys and great white sharks, everywhere I go...)

I wake up early and, after doing some push-ups and listening to one of my favorite Barbra Streisand CDs, I walk into town to email my old friend Rich Pelley - we used to work together at Future Publishing, and he's one of my favorites. Now he lives in Sydney. While waiting to cross the road there's a tap on my shoulder. Luckily it's not a buffed gay guy (or a great white shark) but Rich Pelley himself.

Rich once ate nothing but McDonalds for an entire month - all in the name of journalism. (Although he did confess to me that three times he broke down and went elsewhere for food during the month. Twice he succumbed to a cherry-flavored Bounty Bar (his favorite) and once - you're not going to believe this - he went to Burger King for a Whopper. Unbelievable. But pure Rich Pelley).

Now he's a freelance writer for "Ralph" magazine (Australia's "FHM"). He tells me his latest job is to interview the girls he finds sunbathing on the beach at Byron Bay - a surf town 300 miles north up the coast, near the border with Queensland. Do I want to join him and his mate Phil for a week's road trip?

I grab my frisbee. We jump in Phil's bright yellow 1988 Ford Laser. And with Michael Jackson blaring on the stereo we're off.

The girls of Byron Bay won't know what's hit them.

My Mother's worst nightmare

We stop off to sleep and to take photographs of such quintessentially Australian tourist attractions as "The Big Banana" (a giant concrete banana, the pride of Coff's Harbor) and "The Big Prawn" (a giant fiberglass prawn, the pride of some other equally-forgettable town). One day's highlight is when we see a cloud shaped exactly like the Channel 4 logo.

But finally we reach Byron - the most easterly point of Australia and, as it will prove to be, my home for the next three weeks.

Byron Bay is a small surf town on the cusp of becoming a major tourist destination. A long sheltered beach, a dramatic cape, very green, very lush. Warm and sunny every day, with the occasional downpour to stay fresh. And filled with the most interesting people.

It's a wonderful, wonderful place. Like Santa Cruz in California, for years Byron Bay has been a magnet for surfers, hippies, and stoned blokes from San Francisco. And despite the increasing numbers of young, drunk "backpackers" staggering through the streets at night (and the loud commercial operations catering to them) the town maintains a spirit of openness, friendliness, and vitality. For all the weed that gets smoked, the folks at Byron seem wide awake.

People are HAPPY here. It's as simple and as magical as that.

Take Billy the local drunk, for example. He's got a big bushy beard, in his late 40s, probably lives in some shack somewhere. Looks like a tramp, frankly. But he's happy. Most evenings you'll find him perched on the big rocks by the main beach, watching the sun go down and drinking booze. Sees me balancing rocks one day, bounces over to introduce himself and all his local mates who are sitting with him. We share a spliff and they tell me stories of the town. They love Byron and they love life. Turns out Billy is a bit of a rock-balancer, too. We spend an hour or so balancing rocks together and at the end all Billy's mates reckon that one of Billy's is the best. (They're dead wrong, I think. They're all messed up on booze. Really, all Billy's are a bit crap because his hands can't stop shaking).

I try to hitchhike whenever I can. It's a great way to meet people, get a finger on the pulse of a community and, if you're not in any kind of hurry (and I'm not), it gets you from A to B. And even if you don't get to B, more often than not - after spending some time talking with a stranger in a car - you'll have gotten to where you needed to be. (Apologies to The Rolling Stones - we were listening to them in the car today).

Hitching in Byron is a dream. After being picked up by mothers on their way to picking up kids from school, surfers, and all manner of local tradesmen, I quickly come to two conclusions: 1) Seemingly all the locals I meet came here on holiday X years ago, liked it lots, and stayed; 2) I could quite easily end up doing the same. (Sorry Mother but, as per your worst fears, I've found a little home away from home 10,000 miles away.)

The only real sad-looking people I see are a handful of the not-so-positive drunks and druggies. Among their number is the only aborigine man I see in Byron. Most everyone else is a charm. I hope they don't let all this slip through their fingers as the new money from Sydney continues to pour in.

Rich, Phil and I spend a fun week having fun in the sun, meeting these folks and lots more decides. Then it's time for the boys to head back to Sydney. I decide to stay in Byron and sign up for a five day "Surfari" up the coast and into Queensland...

Planko and the Brain

Planko & Dave

Led by two smiling Aussie blokes, leader Dave (small and wiry, very smart) and driver/chef Planko (enormous, ex-Rugby League Player) - I thought immediately of Pinky and The Brain, but kept my mouth shut - we set off in a big van packed with food, camping equipment, and a dozen surf boards strapped to the roof. There are ten budding surfers: three men, seven women ("Two girls to every boy" no less - the Beach Boys would approve) and into the wilds we go, all of us in search of the perfect wave.

On the way up the coast we see eagles, turtles, dolphins...

...and, thankfully, no sharks. Which is somewhat miraculous, given that at the time of our trip record numbers of baitfish were schooling close to shore, attracting record numbers of enormous sea-going predators. We're quick to mention this fact to our instructors.

Round the campfire, Planko scoffs at our fears. He offers his perspective on this natural phenomena in an attempt to settle our nerves.

"There's good news and bad news, mates," he begins confidently. "The bad news, and this should be bloody obvious, is there's a shitload of sharks about. The good news..."

He pauses.

"...is that all the sharks are stuffed stupid with baitfish. So they're not at all hungry for human flesh." He considers it a moment, then nods to himself. "No, not hungry for humans at all."

He's not at all convincing and Planko's grand theory is met with skepticism.

Unabashed, he tells us the story of a shark attack in Florida last year. A ten-year-old boy was at the beach with his family, had his arm bitten off by a tiger shark in just three feet of water. The boy's father, who'd seen the shark coming, ran into the water and got there in time to pull the boy onto the beach. The boy's uncle, three steps behind the father, got there in time to grab the tiger shark by the tail and wrestle it onto the beach, where a cop put three bullets in its head. They wrenched its jaws open with the cop's baton, pulled out the boy's arm, and had it successfully reattached at the local hospital.

"Think of me as your uncle," Planko offers.

Most of us are now even more frightened than we were to start with. Everyone remains highly dubious. Planko can see it's not going well. Dave comes to his rescue.

"Oh come on you donkers!" he implores, "you're more likely to be struck by lightning!"

Suitably chastised, and acknowledging that Dave's right - if you look at the numbers - next morning we put our shark-fear behind us and in we go. And we learn to surf! Albeit on a board the size of a tennis court, we all surf! (While simultaneously managing, at all times, to avoid looking like a baitfish).

Fantastic. This is the life. Getting up at dawn and surfing as the sun rises. Camping out under the stars. Bypassing all the towns, stopping at all of the best out-of-the-way surf spots. Learning the basic mechanics of it, how a wave works, why an "offshore" breeze - from the land out to see - makes better waves than an "onshore" breeze. Legitimately getting to use phrases such as "point break" and "sex wax" in serious conversation.

I love every minute of it and at the end of our five days no one wants to return to civilization. Everyone should do this. I'm grinning as I type this, it was such a good buzz.

"Ode to Planko"

To Planko, chief chef on our tour:
You're a top bloke and big as a door.
Your jokes are all rude
and you cook tasty food.
May all of your winds blow offshore.

Surfing inspired ramblings

I'm sure all new surfers bore their friends with similar waffle, but here goes:

Surf's up

The big lesson I learned while surfing - and it's a classic, a lesson that seemingly I have to learn over and over - is that if we invest positive energy in something healthy, then we reap the rewards - both immediately, and then (and this is the great bit) again and again in ways we can't anticipate. The positive energy echoes. We reap what we sow. Another way of putting it: It's possible to surf your way through life - you can catch the waves, and keep a smile on your face. But to do so you have to pay attention, apply what you learn, and know that for every wave you catch, there's an equal amount of paddling back out to be done. Me, often I'm too bloody lazy to paddle...

Anyway, there ends Neil's Big Surfing Epiphany. Let's see if I can walk the walk.

[TO BE CONTINUED...]

And that's all for this time my lovelies.

I'm fine on my own, 50,000 miles from home. (But sometimes it's dull, and sometimes it's difficult, and sometimes I miss you lot).

- Neil