Under a Fatal Sun: The Cane Toad Pilgrimage comes to a reluctant end. Photo: Barlo
Twenty-four kilometers to the Gosford cutoff. The country two-lane ended abruptly on the outskirts of Newcastle and suddenly I’m on four lanes of good Queensland cement heading south in a big hurry. I’m to meet Doherty in Terrigal for lunch and possibly a surf at Avoca. I’d meant to hook up with MR in Newcastle but when I rang his shop I was told he was in Ireland competing in the Masters championship.
I fly back to Brisbane tomorrow where I’ll catch a discount Garuda flight back to Aukland. I reckon I’ll spend a few days back in Raglan surfing those chilly, powerful lefts and then it’s back to California for what I hear has been an exceptionally lackluster summer for waves.
I’m not sure I got what Doherty wanted, but I’ve compared and contrasted to my hearts delight and it’s been a nice enough trip. Good people, decent food, lovely wines and the possibility for some great surf. Nice country you’ve got here, Seano, this being the Lucky One and all.
In all, I’ve transited less than 1/35 of Australia’s available coast, actually seen far less. So my impressions are almost those of an alien, one hovering far above this small blue planet whose oceans match the color of the universe.
But what I see, I like. One could feel quite at home here. Ask any cane toad.
And next time, I get a Kingswood.
