Beach Walker: Chapter 1
Strange Peculiar
Between the Rip and the Barwon River curves a south-facing arc of fine sand, backed by scrubby dunes. It’s ten kilometres long.
A distinct geographical feature, it should surely have a name. Yet I’ve consulted maps and questioned locals, and it doesn’t seem to. The westernmost section is Raff’s Beach. (Who was Raff? Nobody seems to know.) The rest is simply named for the seaside towns tucked behind the barrier dune: Ocean Grove, Collendina, Point Lonsdale. Yet it’s all one beach, framing one wide, shallow bay — which is also nameless. Strange.
I just call it the Beach.
To this refugee from sorrow and Riverina dust, the Beach has been a revelation. Since I arrived in spring, I’ve walked here every day, regardless of weather and state of tide. Soft feet have hardened, weak ankles have grown stronger and my calves, thin after too many years of a sedentary life, are rounding out. Much more of this, and I’ll almost be fit.
The Beach is a place of sensory delight. At misty dawn the wet sand ripples like a lake of mercury. Under a noonday sun it shivers with light, sears my retinas like molten silver. At sunset it gleams like burnished copper. The white noise of the surf soothes my worries. On a blustery day, the wind roars in my ears, drowning thought entirely. Firm sand tickles…
