G'day.

Thanks for all the nice letters of support. Makes me feel loved!

I got the following letter from Mr Trent Ward of Vancouver. He's a "hotmail" user.

"P.S. On a whim, I just checked my junkmail folder and there is a letter from you. I can't imagine why my junkmail filter decided that your letter was a threat when each day several offers to enlarge my penis seem to get through without any worries whatsoever, but maybe that's just Microsoft looking out for my best interests."

So Microsoft is filtering my mails into the "junk" folders? Bastards. Or strangely perceptive guardians of literature? You be the judge. Anyway, for all you hotmail accounts, that's where emails from me will be. If you're missing them.

Also had a couple of people ask, "What's all this rock balancing business?" Well, there's a guy called Bill Dan in San Francisco who used to balance rocks (I know, I know, I'm getting there) outside the Exploratorium. He doesn't any more. But he inspired me to have a go, and I found that I enjoy it. Anyway, it's when you balance one rock on top of another. Simple as that. (See the picture attached). I can focus on it, it's kind of a meditation for me. And it looks cool.

It doesn't pull chicks, though, in case you were wondering. It attracts a lot of Japanese teenagers, older hippy ladies, and ultra-enthusiastic Dads who all make the same jokes about Aroldyte and come with a brood of disinterested brats who push the rocks over when they think Dad's not looking. But no chicks.

Here's some more of what happened to me in Australia:

[...CONTINUED]

After saying goodbye to Planko, Dave, and my surf buddies, it's back to Byron Bay. I spend a few lazy days refining my surf skills, playing cards with Canadians, sunning myself, and - most memorably - once again embracing my role in the food chain while sea kayaking.

If the dolphins won't come to you

You know that Japanese painting of the giant wave about to overtake the people in the rowboat? It's one in a series of "views of Mount Fuji". Anyway, I always liked the picture and now I have a new appreciation for what the poor rowers must be feeling.

Byron Bay

So a bunch of us are kayaking in the ocean, following the beach around to the point. I'm sharing a boat with a German girl called Mellanie. The plan is to kayak out to where a pod of dolphins live.

"You want to stay as close to the shore as you can, to keep out of the wind" calls out Brad our guide. "But don't get so close to the shore that you get caught in the waves."

No shit, Brad. The waves are enormous. Brad's got sun-block streaked on his face like war paint. He's showing off, flexing his muscles in his cut-off wetsuit, paddling backwards in his kayak.

"If you do get caught in a wave, it's simple - just point the nose of your kayak straight at the wave and paddle as fast as you can."

As if only an idiot would get caught in the waves.

Brad, you're a ponce.

It's very pleasant out in the bay, though. I can see Mount Warning in the distance - the highest peak in the area, you can climb up it at 2am to be the first Australian to see the sunrise. The lighthouse twinkles as the sun passes between clouds. I already told you Byron's a magical place, I'm sure. For tens of thousands of years, and up until 200 years ago when the white man changed everything in Australia, Aboriginal tribal leaders congregated on the Byron peninsula every ten years to hammer out their differences. They picked this site, apparently, because they believe it nurtured communication and agreement. I like to think that they, like me, felt at peace here. (And, like all blokes at business conventions, I'm sure they appreciated being somewhere where the leisure time opportunities were up to par).

People are happy here. On the beach I can see the local dude who's job it is to drive a quad-bike up and down the beach selling ice creams. He's happy here, too. I talked with him one afternoon. He spends all day checking out girls, listening to his radio, chuckling to himself about how life couldn't get any more perfect. Not everyone's dream, sure. But if you're looking for a case study in contentment, check him out.

Anyway, soon we've paddled out as far as the point and Brad says for us all to put down our oars. We're in front of "The Pass" - Byron's premiere surf spot where bronzed locals show us tourists how it's done. We're out in the ocean now and the water is far from calm. Huge swells heading for the beach lift our kayak up, up, up, then down, down, down, as they roll underneath us on their way to becoming monster breakers on the beach.

"Don't worry, folks," Brad shouts over the sound of churning water, "none of these waves will break over us, we're too far out." He's making eyes at one of the girls, though, and isn't paying much attention to the rest of us. The plan is to relax where we are and the dolphins will come to us, if they're in an inquisitive mood. But the sea's a bit too rough to relax, the sun's clouded over, and after half an hour of not doing much it's getting cold. Mellanie and I decide to paddle off a little ways on our own.

And at last the dolphins come out to play.

Following the swells, leaping in and out of the water, exploding through the waves like, um, organic torpedoes (or something) and heading straight towards us. One of them almost jumps straight over one of our group's kayaks. Then they're gone and we're all left grinning at each other, as we bob up and down in the swells.

It's all very jolly until Mellanie points out to sea and whimpers. Heading straight towards us is...

The Biggest Wave I've Ever Seen.

An enormous wall of water with icy fingers of foam pointing menacingly at us from the top. As big as a building. Very frightening indeed. I whimper like a girl. Mellanie and I turn our kayak towards it and start paddling Like Neither Of Us Have Ever Paddled Before. Down, down, down we sink into the trough as the final wave between us and the monster rolls from under us. Now we're looking straight up at a big watery cliff face. The sky goes dark. The nose of the kayak is lifted. We start to climb. Up, up, up. We're paddling like mad but there's no way we're going to make it.

I have time to think, "Quite remarkable. I'm attempting to paddle a canoe vertically upwards."

And then it's all over. Kerrrr-rash. The boat is flipped over backwards. It's dark for a while. And very wet. Then I pop up (we're all wearing life jackets) to find me, Mellanie, our oars, and our boat scattered over about 200 yards of ocean. We swim towards the boat, but in the waves it's slow going, eventually we scramble clamber back into our boat, and sit shaking and shivering. Mellanie doesn't utter a word. It starts drizzling, and all the dolphins have buggered off. Wet through, we slowly paddle home.

On balance, a fine day. At least it seemed that way back on shore after a hot cup of tea and half a pack of cigarettes.

The 13th Annual East Coast Blues & Roots Festival

One sunny afternoon, while skipping down the street swigging my carrot juice, I see a poster advertising the upcoming "East Coast Blues & Roots Music Festival" - with a sticker on the bottom saying "Volunteers Needed".

Welcome to Scott's Head

Remembering my Big Surfing Epiphany (see last week's mail) I figure it's time to invest some energy in a new project. Time to do a little paddling.

I hitch out to the festival office and fill out a form. I'm called back the next day and have a pleasant chat with Katie the press officer. We talk about my journalism work, and garageband.com, and she says that she'd be happy to have me on her team. My job at the festival will be - get this - escorting the artists from backstage after their performances to the CD-signing area in the main festival area. Or, Katie says with a straight face, if I'd prefer she could probably get me a job wearing an orange bib in the car park. She's a kidder.

So I get to swank around in a golf cart, backstage pass flapping in the breeze, chatting to The Proclaimers, Jack Johnson, Steve Earle, and a bunch of others. I get to meet tons of local festival-goers as they're queuing up to get celebrity autographs. What's more, I become a hero to all my scumbag mates staying at the hostel as I'm able to smuggle bottles of liquor past security and into the festival grounds. (Sorry Katie).

Everyone's a winner.

And there's some great music, too. Let me tell you my favorite moment:

Byron locals consider The Blues Festival as the last big party of summer. It's famous for having at least one torrential downpour over the five days (no blues festival would be complete without a few black rain clouds, right?). So, just in case, each of the main stages is under an enormous tent canopy. One sunny afternoon, Keb Mo (a good ol' Bay Area boy) is playing an acoustic set with just a bassist for accompaniment. He's kicking ass. But he's having trouble with his guitar's B string. It won't stay in tune. He's trying to fix it on the fly, mid-song, but every time he thinks he's got it fixed he has to fiddle with it again. Eventually the frustration is too much, he puts down his guitar, and the meanest scowl flashes across his face: at that exact second, the tent roof darkens, the heavens open, and - as if summoned - rain plummets downwards. By the bucket load.

The crowd gasps, the rain thunders down onto the canvas roof, Keb Mo grins, he picks up his guitar and plays on. The atmosphere under the canopy is electric.

It made my day.

"The Pass" at Byron Bay

And I met lots of fun people and make some great connections with Byron locals. There's the Music Festival's media department, for a start, and they know everyone. Then there's Nathan - musician, hippy. Constantly on the pull. (Relax ladies, that's a didgereedoo in his pocket). And the guy who runs the local record shop. His daughter, who bartends one of the best clubs. Um... Ethel, a nice old lady on the local St John's Ambulance team. My lists of top-notch contacts goes on and on.

I'm sorry to report, however, that I may have torpedoed any potential chumminess with at least one of The Proclaimers.

But it wasn't my fault.

Anyone who's been to Glastonbury knows the state that the Port-a-Loos can get into during a busy music festival. Even backstage disasters can occur.

One afternoon I found myself having to take a slash, and raced into the only available cubicle. A cubicle - that I was quick to discover - with a toilet bowl containing a large item of unspeakable horror. I closed my eyes, held my breath, did what I needed to do, then bolted out the door.

Only to find Craig (or was it Charlie?) Proclaimer waiting outside for his turn. We exchanged polite nods, he walked in, and closed the door behind him. I kept walking.

He was giving me dirty looks for the rest of the week. But, what could I do? Let the miserable sweaty walk 500 miles if he wants to find a spotless Khazi.

Rich Pelley's Mother

All too soon my time in Australia is running out. After the festival closes it's time to say goodbye to Byron and hop on the overnight bus back south. I watch the most tedious movie in the universe (Mr Holland's Opus) and wake up in Sydney. I get to see Jim Flynn and Nathan Berkeley (but not for as long as IÍd like. I love Jim's company), bump into a Danish bloke who I landed on top of after falling out of a top bunk one night in South Africa, and go to Bondi Beach with Rich Pelley's mother (it's the dream we've all dreamed of).

Then it's a taxi ride to the airport ("You late for your plane, man? Don't worry. I'm the fastest Taxi in Sydney. They call me "The Eagle"!") and hop onto a plane to New Zealand.

No worries.

- Neil