The campfire crackled under the star-filled night, as warmth wrapped my legging-clad shins.
The air smelled of delicious wood smoke, and I could taste a hint of eucalyptus behind my Barossa Valley shiraz. Around the fire’s steady glow a large group of women sat munching on their local, organic camp-cooked dinner.
Only an hour ago, as dusk drew pastel lines across the same sky, I’d watched one member of this girl-posse prepare the fire. She’d set the wood into a perfect teepee shape, leaving pockets of air as she lay sticks expertly atop one another
I’d known this group of ladies less than a day, yet I already knew they weren’t ordinary women. I’d known it as soon as I’d spotted them, early that morning, in their convoy of not-so-womanly cars. These were the kind of chicks who knew how to light a perfect fire, how to rig an outdoor camp kitchen, and how to sleep under the stars.
These were my kind of girls. And every one of them, with their salty ragged hair, knew how to surf.
On Thursday evening, I’d made a decision to head south on a solo surf trip. If you’ve read my recent blogs you might know I’ve just had a break up, and in an effort to alleviate some of that I don’t want to talk to you, but I desperately want to talk to you battle (ugh), I decided to escape.
As I drove south on Friday afternoon, the sky was grey and gloomy. After two hours of driving I began to panic. I still hadn’t felt the rush of joy and freedom I typically get when I hit the road and I found myself asking, what the f were you thinking? Three days of being alone? After a breakup? Nice one, stupid.
I had to pep talk the s**t out of myself to keep driving, self directing statements like, this is what I do, babe (though it had been far too long since this was what I did), and, I’ve always been happiest on the road!
As usual, I had no plan. On road trips, I’d always preferred to follow my intuition, making a little game out of fate. That afternoon, I’d decided upon Bawley point, a quiet beach town 3 hours south of my home, filled with holiday go-er’s and rugged surf.
When I arrived, the clouds had thickened further into a dark grey blanket, and the winds were onshore and unpleasant. I hugged my sweater to my shivering body as I walked out to the check the surf, which was (of course), terrible. Looking at the sloppy waves I decided that this was probably going to be the most lonely, depressing and awful solo surf trip I’d ever taken.
I sighed as I packed a beach bag and walked Bobo down the cliff. I set up where the relentless wind was a little softer and made a cosy bed, then lay down to read my book. I’d been there around 30 minutes, (feeling sorry for myself for 28 of them) when a woman with long greying hair and two crazy dogs walked past our camp.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” she said, her eyes shifting and voice soft, “are you staying in your van?”
Not sure how vulnerable I was willing to be (there are rapist murderers all over the world you know) I replied, “Well, probably not right here, but yes, I’m on a trip in my van”.
She looked down and away, her feet shifting from side to side and then seemed to decide something, “Well I have a place you can stay…. a small studio in the forest… if you want”
Did I want?
Still on the murdering-rapist train of thought I politely declined but took her number anyway. About ten minutes after she left, a rather loud voice in my head was like, woman, are you mad? You just said you didn’t want to be alone!
That night, we drank wine in her cosy kitchen, our glasses resting on her ironbark counters as we chatted for hours about love, life and failed relationships. Then I snuggled into her cosy studio, my heart warm, my mind softly chanting, I’m the luckiest girl in the world, as I drifted off to sleep.
In the morning, as the birds sang to the rising sun, that same voice told me, head north, go to Mollymook. An hour later I pulled into the cul-de-sac at the north end of the beach, as a convoy of vans, utes and SUV’s blocked the way around.
I was mad until I realised it was a group of surfer chicks, and within about 30 seconds of parking right next to them (I wasn’t missing that opportunity), I’d become part of the crew. We surfed and chatted and cheered each other on, the waves plentiful and large, and the sun beaming down upon the crystal clear water.
After the surf I ran into a friend from home, and then (amazingly) another. I made two new friends at a cafe in Milton over (a very long) lunch. I drove to Green Island point for another surf and ran into a French couple from Bondi that I’d met only two weeks earlier. We spent the rest of the afternoon sunbathing together, chatting about their careers, and planning their escape from the corporate world.
They wanted to live the dream, they said, just like me.
As the sun drew lower a text came through from the surfer posse, come camp with us tonight, it said, we’re making a big feast and we’d love to have you.
So there I was, the fire crackling, not more than a few minutes spent alone on my entire trip, feeling like the luckiest, most divinely guided woman in the world.
I felt so…
Grateful.
It got me thinking. Life isn’t black and white. Things aren’t this way or that. Sometimes, gratitude arrises on its own, due to the right circumstances. Maybe it’s not the cultivation of gratitude alone that makes us happy, nor is it the right circumstances alone.
Perhaps it is a delicate balance between the two.
Last night, finally alone, Bobo and I sat on the beach as the sun went down. The warmth of gratitude in my heart was outrageous as I ate pasta straight out of my camp-stove pot and sipped the rest of my shiraz from my plastic wine cup.
This last couple months I’d been feeling like I needed more community and way more gratitude. It’s the very reason I launched my upcoming Gratitude Challenge: so I could have others help me to feel thankful. Yet here I was, doing the thing I loved most, and thanks was practically dripping from my pores out onto the cool sand.
So yes, sometimes you have to formally cultivate gratitude. That way, when times get tough, you can pull yourself through.
But don’t forget, sometimes you just gotta do the things you love.
Doing what you love trumps everything.
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