Tree branches, like two extended arms reaching for each other’s outstretched fingertips, form an archway leading to a place unlike any other, a world where time has no bearing.
One wave after another caresses Stradbroke Island’s sedate shoreline, our feet sinking into the soft, silky sand.
It’s the type of satisfaction reminiscent of resting your head on a goose down pillow after an exhausting day.
The beach, barring a flock of seagulls circling above like starving vultures, was completely ours.
I felt like Tom Hanks from Castaway, but unlike him, hoped there was no way off this peaceful paradise.
Everyone experiences a day they hope lasts forever, a perpetual escape from reality. This was one of those days.
As we chased the seagulls like exuberant youths without a care in the world, sauntering across the untrodden, unblemished sand, we peered out onto the vast expanse of the deep blue, the magnitude of which would leave even the most experienced seafarer speechless.
Shining and glimmering bright, the sun did its utmost to fight off the cloud’s menacing advances.
Time was of the essence as the sun, with all of its energy, power and might, would remain uninhibited only for so long.
Dashing toward the Pacific Ocean’s wide open, gaping mouth with pace and intent I dove under a wave, my head popping up like an otter coming up to draw breath. Ez followed close behind. I quickly realised how startlingly cold and refreshing the water is on Australia’s eastern coast in late autumn. Too late to turn back, Ez was also about to feel the water’s bitterly cold touch.
Wide-eyed and on the verge going into shock, we exited the frigid water before the clouds completely blanketed the sun.
As temperamental as a baby’s emotions, the skies opened up with conviction and fury, battering the ocean and shoreline indiscriminately, .
There was something ironically calming about the volatility with which the sky pelted the otherwise tranquil shoreline.
We would have stood up to Mother Nature’s wrath had it not been for the expensive electronic gear we were compelled to protect. Invigorated, refreshed and full of life, we darted for shelter.
The violent storm subsided almost as quickly as it began, calm once again prevailing. The sun shone once more as we sipped our perfectly made flat white.
Unlike Tom Hanks’ perilous plight on Castaway, Straddie unfortunately does offer a way off the island. A bus – although running less frequently than Rosie O’Donnell – transported us to a ferry for the final connection to mainland Australia.
The day, like every moment I hope lasts forever, felt as though it was gone in a flash.
Every moment, however, from our Straddie retreat, like the cave inscriptions of Ashoka, are forever etched and indelibly inscribed. We even had the pleasure of running into a lonesome – and, more surprisingly, awake koala – and a wandering kangaroo, underlining the already quintessentially Australian day.
If ever entrenched in inconsolable despair, or asked to think of a happy place, my mind will immediately refer back to this day on serene Straddie, our Neverland and euphoric escape from reality.
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