I read somewhere that simply to be alive is like winning the biggest lottery in the universe.
Of course if the math is done the likelihood of life out there seems to be quite high, but still, with the scale of all about us, to have your particular little packet of atoms come into being, and for a happy life to be granted it is, to be fair, quite small.
So you don't give it up in a hurry.
Dad, bless him, is hanging on, and back at home, happy to be there though his decline continues. Anywhere would be better than a hospital room, and his increasing confusion meant that at one stage he had managed to deduct a plot of some sort from the arrangement of lights and vents in the ceiling. He really did need to be surrounded by good memories, and not the hallucinations a blank wall can birth.
With his improved circumstance, a couple of days ago the family said to take some days away, and have a break. The boys were going stir crazy in rain soaked Brisbane, and though enjoying time with cousins, as outdoor types the chance to stretch some limbs needed to be granted them. Heading south to wave soaked Angourie, home of the fabled point and the even more legendary Nat Young, we found instead simply soaked Angourie, with Nat off skiing.
I did have a surf on arrival, crowded and fairly crappy, my surfing rubbish from no activity, and perhaps as a punishment for leaving Dad. The bad shoulder got worse to top it off but the exercise was welcome.
I must admit to feeling very conflicted, despite familial assurances it's ok. Perhaps so, and perhaps not, though the signs, if you take any notice of that sort of thing, could be taken that it was the wrong thing to do.
Since then it has rained solidly for two days, with more on the way, and yesterday, while taking an umbrella sheltered dusk walk around the house we are staying at, I came across the Demon Kangaroo, a hugely muscled six foot tall male that gave me a white eyed glare as I took a flash assisted shot just before he hopped off in disgust .
Today, onshore and small, our plans to head back to Pa Sunday coinciding with a projected swell. You have to laugh, but the reconnect with a little quiet reality has been good anyway.
For those out there who remember my film Musica Surfica, you may also remember Warren Pfeiffer, the master mat rider who featured in it. Warren very graciously has allowed us use of his home for the break, and his company has been a delight, though for a couple of nights he has left us alone as he headed north to catch up with his pal George Greenough.
Today, it looks like we might, just might, see the sun, so perhaps a skate is in order for Tom, though judging from this morning's shot of the surf, we won't be getting wet.
Pics: the morning's surf check, and Hell Roo.