Nights 68 - 86

THE DOG RULE

Lately we have been confronted with a rule enacted by some ‘dog friendly’ caravan parks concerning allowable dogs.  It’s a rule that hinges upon a complete lack of reality as far as I can tell.  The rule goes like this – ANY dog that weighs less than 10kg is a safe and welcome dog; ANY dog that weighs over 10kg is unsafe and therefore unwelcome.  This is a standing rule, regardless of the breed of dog or the dog’s individual temperament. Thankfully not every ‘dog friendly’ park observes this rule.  The ones that do sound a lot like this over the phone:

ME: Blah, blah…we also have a dog.

THEM:  How big is it?

ME: What do you mean? (playing dumb is my best strategy).

THEM: How much does your dog weigh?

ME: (lying a little) Oh, it’s about 14 or 15kg I guess. (Morrissey actually weighs almost 20kg).  He’s solid but not large.  He has a great temperament. (I say pre-emptively, hoping to subvert the rule I know is coming).

THEM: We only accept dogs up to 10kg in weight.  Sorry.

ME:  It’s only a couple of kilograms more and he really is a lovely dog.  He’s very placid.  He’s no bother (I say this not quite begging, but I do have a moderately pleading tone).

THEM: I’m sorry but your dog is too heavy.  I can’t accept your booking.

ME: But…?

THEM:  Sorry, it’s the rule.

And there is nothing I can say from this point that will make a scrap of difference.  The ‘Dog Rule’ stands,  apparently sacrosanct.

 

 

Once I tried debating the voice on the end of the phone.  I pointed out, quite rightly I believe, that small breeds of dog are often the most aggressive.  I explained that the ‘little yappy dog’ syndrome actually does exist and that a caravan park full of snarling and yapping hyperactive little dogs all standing off against each other and against the world doesn’t seem like a well thought through goal, no matter how much each individual dog weighs.  Her rebuttal was, and I am still shaking my head as I write this, that “a small dog biting a child would create less of a wound than if a large dog bit a child”.  That’s it.  That’s the rationale beneath the rule.  I understand it a bit – like I know that if you cut yourself with a steak knife the wound will be less severe than if the cut was caused by a chainsaw.  I get the ‘economies of scale’ but my point still stands.  If the bigger dog has no temperament towards biting then the whole bite comparison is moot.  Morrissey’s bite may well be bigger than that of, say, a fox terrier, but, unlike most fox terriers I’ve ever met, Morrissey doesn’t open his mouth in anger.

 

If ‘dog friendly’ caravan parks see fit to discriminate against certain dogs then surely such discrimination would offer better results if based on temperament – of both the dog and the owner.  Any judgement of a dog’s suitability should be based on witnessing the dog and watching how it behaves and reacts to commands.  And, when satisfied that the dog poses no problem, the owners should be made to demonstrate an ability to use a doggy bag to clean up after their pet.  A more apt phone booking conversation would include the questions ‘how well does your dog respond to commands?’ and ‘on average, how many poos does your dog do each day?’  If the owner cannot answer the second question THEN refuse the booking.  The owner should have picked up every poo the dog has done.  Responsible dog owners have a rough understanding of the pooing habits of their pets etched into their consciousness.  Picking up poo is never pleasant and not something easily forgotten. 

 

 In my utopian dog friendly caravan park responsible owners of bigger dogs would rightly be given the respect they deserve – the bigger the dog; the fuller the bag.   The booking conversation would go as follows: “You must really love your dog to pick all that up four times a day.  Come on in.  We trust you. We trust how you will control your dog.  Welcome”.

 

NIGHTS  68 – 72  - BRISBANE.

We had some unfinished business to complete in Brisbane before we left.  The first was Frida’s birthday.  Shana was present at Frida’s birth 9 years ago and they remain close.  Of course Frida wanted Shana to go to her party.  And of course we wouldn’t miss it.  And of course, 9 year old girls at a party scream constantly and for no valid reason.  Ado, Kieran, Tom and I, doing our best to further maintain gender stereotyping, went to the pub to watch the footy.

The second thing we had to do was transform ourselves into musicians.  Tom, who is a songwriter, has created the ‘youdoiticantbebothered’ project.  This entails about thirty people interpreting and recording one of Tom’s songs however they want.  Roping in pro-muso and producer Kieran, Shana and I were to record a song each.  It wasn’t a spur of the moment thing.  We’d had months to hone it.

 Shana created a spoken-word poetic narrative backed by Kieran on mandolin and an all-star chorus of singers including herself, Cammie, Ness, Frida and Henry.  I played acoustic guitar and attempted a Joy Divisionesque atonal mumble alongside Kieran’s sweet voiced backing and bass playing.  We left the ‘master tapes’ in Kieran’s hands.  The results will be available on ‘sound cloud’ soon.

So, with business completed, it was “See ya Brissie.  Love the people but hope your footy teams lose”.

 

NIGHTS  73 & 74  -  MUDJIMBA CARAVAN PARK, MUDJIMBA.

Leaving Brissie we headed for the Sunshine Coast – first stop Coolum.  The Coolum Caravan Park provided our first encounter with ‘The Dog Rule’.  We’d researched places to stay on the Sunny Coast and Coolum Caravan Park hawked itself as ‘dog friendly’.  “We have a dog” I told the crabby old stick behind the counter.  She launched into the weight theory of dog appropriateness.  Somewhat gobsmacked, I convinced her to at least look at Morrissey who exited the van when called, sat on command, dropped when asked and was summarily rejected anyway.  “He’s too big and too heavy” she said, sounding to me like Cruella DeVille.

 

Mudjimba Beach is 5 minutes south of Coolum.  They accepted Morrissey unseen and without reservation.  The caravan park is only 50mtrs from the beach, about 40mtrs from a little shopping strip.  It was a small and lovely, quiet and unpretentious.  It was a great place for the three of us to reacquaint ourselves to living together in a tiny box, re-establishing routines and rules of personal space.  I give the Mudjimba Beach Caravan Park 3 stars out of 5. It was a bit of an oasis hidden in the somewhat gaudy Coolum area of the Sunshine Coast.

 

NIGHTS  75 – 77   SARAWAK CAMP GROUND, INSKIP POINT.

 Inskip Point faces Fraser Island and is comprised of several camping grounds just north of Rainbow Beach.  Most are only accessible by 4WD but a couple can be negotiated by 2WD cars and chunker buses like the ‘bago.  We chose ‘The M.V. Sarawak’ over ‘The M.V. Dorrigo’ campground.  (Bizarrely all the camp grounds are named after ships that have come to grief in the surrounding waters).   Sarawak was further from Rainbow Bay and closer to Fraser Island and, to us, that seemed better. 

We were back to roughing it (yeah…right) with no power or potable water and reliant on the always pleasant and exciting long-drop toilet.  (Of course this is not true as we have a clean and comfortable toilet in the ‘bago.  We try not to use it much though.  Especially for number twos). 

We’ve been very lucky with bush camping and we again found a space in the front line overlooking the beach, even though the camp ground was fairly full.  There was no surf – the beach fringed a water course that ran between the mainland and Fraser Island, about 500mtrs away.  The water flowed in a strong current and didn’t really entice Shana or I to go swimming or fishing. You could swim further down the beach - about 800mtrs away - where Fraser Island ended and allowed surf to sneak past.  Here was where the M.V.Dorrigo camp ground was, which, now being able to compare the two, we would have preferred.

 

We didn’t move though.  We couldn’t be bothered packing everything up and so we stayed put.  We were content enough, hanging around for three days, relaxing and reading and going for walks along the beach.  We met fellow campers and struck up conversational friendships.  As a generalisation older people love to give advice.  Shana now knows the minute details of how to work the CB radio and we both know how to repel mosquitoes using smoke from a wood fire and by ingesting the appropriate vitamins (B12). 

 

We went to Rainbow Beach on leaving – we could see the rainbow sands clearly from near where we were camped.  The sands are spectacular.  Rainbow Beach township is not bad either.  We went looking for ‘Carlos Sandblow’.  All the guides say it is a large sandhill but we still believe it to be the name of the local porn star.  I give M.V.Sarawak camp ground 2 stars out of 5.  It’s a dumb name and we went to the wrong campground. M.V. Dorrigo is an equally dumb name but at least you can swim there.  Plus long-drop toilets only work well until the sun heats up.  Heat transforms them into a bug infested stink cell.

 

NIGHT  78 – ABSOLUTE WATERFRONT CARAVAN PARK, BARGARA.

The name is accurate.  Parking on our allotted space was as absolute waterfront as it gets, like parking along Nobbys Breakwall would be absolute waterfront.  In fact, it felt like we could have been on Nobbys Breakwall except that we were not as high above sea level.  We had similar boulders stacked up from the ocean, a similar mix of gravel, bitumen and concrete beneath us and no way of accessing the water without having to scramble across a razor sharp field of barnacles and oyster shells.  All that was missing was a parade of joggers.

This park wasn’t our first choice.  Again Morrissey was the victim of ‘The Dog Rule’ at our park of choice in Bargara; near the sandy beaches; next to all the funky shops.  I must say, however, that the owners of The Absolute were fantastic and I’d rather not bag the park out too much.  They had this sows ear almost looking like a silk purse in various places.  It was clean and tidy and it was apparent they had made a great effort.  It’s just a pity that ‘the best spot in the park’, as our space was described to us, was really a carparking space.  We were put there because the park was full.

Which I find un-nerving.

 

Why is a place as mediocre as The Absolute Waterfront Caravan Park full?  I can only put it down to The Dog Rule.  Everyone staying at this park had a dog, most over 10kg.  Is this a sign of things to come?  Is it a case of “you have a dog, take whatever crap spot you are offered”.  Maybe we should dress Mozz in a bonds suit and cover him with a crocheted blanked; pretend he’s an ugly kid.  I give the Absolute Waterfront Caravan Park 1 ½ stars out of 5 and this is mainly for the pretty fish themed shower curtains and the homely quotes on the amenities walls.

 

NIGHT  79  -  FIRST POINT CARAVAN PARK, AGNES WATERS

At $40 per night off peak rate, this is the most expensive place we have stayed.   We had to come here because, we’ve been reliably informed, Agnes Waters is the last place offering surf when heading north. (Yes, yes, yes, we know the last statement is technically incorrect.  We know that during a cyclone several waves appear in various harbours and bays along the coast.   But we don’t want a cyclone.  Really, we could think of nothing worse.   So, like he-who-cannot-be-named, we refuse to acknowledge them or entertain any possibility of experiencing them). 

First Point is a pretty headland at the southern end of a long, open beach.  It looks like it could throw out a good wave on the right day.  But today is not the right day.  The water is warm and inviting but almost lake-like.  A pity, but we were in the caravan park seeking hot showers and washing machines and electricity. Tomorrow we intend bush camping in the next bay south, less than a kilometre away –  just $6 per head per night.  At forty bucks a night for a little power and hot water, the last surf on the coast, and an almost perennial summer, you’d think the First Point Caravan Park must be making a tidy profit.

 

We also went to 1770 (the town, not back in time).  We initially thought we might stay there but, although it is nice, it wasn’t our ‘nice’.  It’s a fishing village with a pub and a caravan park and large tidal movements that when out turn the ocean and the river into one wide mud flat.  I know people who find the place enchanting.  Fair enough.  Shana & I give the First Point Caravan Park 2 stars out of 5.  It was expensive with out-dated dark and dingy toilets.  We fixed them though.  We had two showers each.

 

NIGHTS  80  -  85  - WORKMANS BEACH, AGNES WATERS.

Workmans Beach is a bush camping area 0.8 km up the hill from Agnes Waters township.  Positioned atop a headland it overlooks a rocky beach with surf breaking into a little bay. It has walking tracks through the bush going in both directions.  Run by the local council it has flush toilets and a cold water shower.  Dotted amongst the trees there are campsites ranging from small tents to fifth wheelers that make the ‘bago look small.  Theoretically, camping there is limited to 30 days, but some campsites demonstrated years of habitation.

We stayed for six days – here are some vignettes.

 

 

                Surf!

This was the last place to surf for months and on the third day a chunky swell arrived.  It looked fantastic – corduroy lines sweeping around the point groomed by offshore winds.  Workmans was clean and sweet that day, and I had it for an hour by myself.  There were many other surfers in the camp but I don’t know where they all were.  It was mid-tide and rising.  I couldn’t imagine it getting any better with more water.  The rides were long, but the waves lacked power really.  They were big, but fat and wobbly.

The surf the next day was bigger and Workmans little bay was a mass of moving water.  With my board tucked under my arm, I rode the pushie down the hill to Agnes.  While I was watching from the beach, bodyboard beside me, the life-guard came to check me out, checking my intentions.  He advised me not to paddle out.  I think he was following the ‘bodyboards are for kids’ line of logic.  I assured him I’d be fine (a big swell at Agnes Waters tops out at 2mtrs or so).  I had a couple of hours of fun.  Again, the waves lacked power, but if you worked them hard enough you got a decent ride. 

I surfed Workmans for the next two days, with the swell dropping slowly.   Waves came through less frequently but it was the start of winter and I was in boardies and a rashie.  Can’t complain.

                Mr Manly Vs the Magic Bus driver.

I first met Mr Manly in the surf.  I’d been surfing on my own for an hour when he paddled out.  I was glad for the company.  If nothing else, he being there halved my chances of being eaten by a shark.  He told me he was from Manly.  He said it in that way I’ve found common with people from Sydney’s Northern Beaches – in a tone close to skiting, as if Sydney’s Northern Beaches are the pinnacle of where anyone could possibly live.  I glorified Newy.

He and his wife were in a camper van near to us so I saw him often.  He was a strutter – roostering around and preening shirtless, his nipple ring reflecting sunlight.  He was my age and in good physical condition.

Now, the Magic Bus arrived on our fourth day.  It was a large coaster bus painted brightly and advertising itself for hire.  It had two owner/drivers and six backpackers on board.  The backpackers could get on and off at certain points, paying for the experience by the day.  The drivers owned the business.  The bus stopped in a prominent position and several two person tents were erected around it.  They had fun.  They were noisy and drunk at night but not disrespectfully, or I didn’t think so.

On the morning of their second day they fired up a generator.  Generators are noisy but not banned.  There were many in the camp ground.  One of the bus’ drivers started playing music loudly through the bus speakers, I believe to cover the sound of the generator.  It was about 11am.  I didn’t know the music but it was a ‘coastal chill’ type of song.

Mr Manly had just returned from surfing.  He didn’t like the loud music.  Clad only in wet speedos, he hurumphed his way over to the bus, shouting all the way and acting like the little bantam rooster he was.  He yelled without pause, he pointed his finger accusingly, he reached into the bus cabin trying to grab the keys and he puffed himself out.

I could see it all from where I sat.  Mr Manly believed he spoke on behalf of the whole campground – “we all don’t want this noise, etc”.  Really, I’d rather have the music than listen to the generator droning.  Mr Manly got into the face of the bearded and bare-footed bus driver.  They were nose to nose.

The young guy was very cool.  He spoke loudly but he didn’t shout.  He said “if you’d asked me I’d have turned it down.  You didn’t have to come over and threaten me.  Chill out.”  Mr Manly hollered back “The music was so loud you wouldn’t have heard me”.  The young guy simply said “bullshit mate.  That’s bullshit and you know it”.   These words deflated Mr Manly.  He tried various other excuses but with lessening conviction.  It was obvious - Mr Manly had gone about it the wrong way.  It was he who was guilty of disrespect to others.  The music was turned down but it was clear that Mr Manly was not the victor.

When I saw him later that day I just ignored the whole issue, discussing the day’s surf instead.  He’d never enlist me to support him in any way.  If anything, it was the bus driver who was the hero of the camp.

                The Vespa

We haven’t had much occasion to need the Vespa.  It’s a complicated process to remove it & not really worth doing if camping for single days.  However, camping for six days with the town (coffee shops) nearby was the perfect opportunity.

She’s a townie is Vron (Shan’s name for the Vespa, which is female by the way).  Vron scoots comfortably around city streets, she finds sneaky parking spots, she edges forward cheekily at the lights.  But she positively and absolutely does not take to the country.  It’s not what she was built for. 

To get anywhere in the campground requires negotiating a maze of overlapping tracks.  These tracks are made of sand.  Vron hates sand most of all.  With her petite wheels and smooth tyres sand crosses her up and trips her over.  Keeping her upright becomes a fight.  Picture Shanzie, helmet on and desperately seeking coffee, both legs stretched like outriggers making an isosceles triangle from her bottom, paddling through the sand at 5kph.  Watch her do this until she disappears from sight.  She stuck with it and by the end of our stay she was throwing the tail sideways like a motocross rider (well…almost).

 

                Kev and Rebel the randy.

While camped Morrissey made a friend.  His name was Rebel and he was a black and white staffie – a bit shorter than Moz and a lot stockier.  Rebel had grown up living mostly in the wild.  Kev, Rebel’s owner, was a permanent nomad from what we could gather.  He had a limp and an air of melancholy and we got the impression that he lived on the road more due to necessity than choice.  We never asked why.  We became friends but not at a delving level.  We visited his camp with Moz; he and Rebel visited ours.

Rebel had a distinguishing feature – his testicles hung large and low like a cow’s udder full of milk.  It was noticeable.  Kev said that people always commented on it. (He also said that a dog takes after its owner.  He was only joking but we sought no validation).  Maybe this is why Rebel spent a lot of his time trying to mount Moz, lip-stick out and humping wildly towards genitalia that Moz simply didn’t possess.  It didn’t worry Moz too much.  He’d just wriggle and squirm out from under him and they’d wrestle again for 10 minutes or so until Rebel’s overwhelming randyness returned and the whole impossible dance recommenced.

                The Big Earthworm.

My ideal me is a man who is capable of providing fish on cue.  My ideal me would say “I’m going fishing now.  Any particular fish you desire?” and have the skill and knowledge to make it real.  When as-I am-now me says those exact same sentences, well, we both have a laugh and then Shana checks our stock of tinned salmon or tuna.  I’m learning though.  I’ve studied different fishing rigs and tried various baits and skimmed fake fish through the water, all with little success.  And I’ve read books.  The latest advice I’d read regarded bait.  I read that local bait is always the best.  More fish will be caught if the bait comes from the local food chain.  Makes sense.

I was walking back from the toilet one day late in our stay.  I was following the main sand track and it had been churned up following a spell of rain.  Sticking out about 75mm into the air was what looked like a massive earthworm. It was beige/white and about as thick as a pencil.  It struck me as an ideal instance of local bait.

The problem was this – we were leaving the next day and I hadn’t intended going fishing again.  The day was grey and I was feeling lazy.  So, if I wasn’t going to use the worm immediately, should I leave it to its wormy ways or pluck it from the sand for later?  I stood in the middle of the track thinking about it.

Mr Manly saw me and came over.  I knew he’d have advice.  “Pull it out” he said, “take it with you.  Worms are fantastic bait.  You’ll catch fish somewhere with it.  It’s much better than using frozen bait.”

I did what he suggested.  I can’t yet report on any success or not as the worm remains unused.  It was about 300mm long and I put it in a bag with some sand and then put the whole lot into my fishing bag.  I hope it’s still there.  It could have escaped by now, slithering through the ‘bago late at night, growing stronger and larger and waiting for its time to retaliate and find its way home.

                Taking Morgan Fishing

I can’t recall exactly how I met Morgan but suddenly there he was, in our van, looking around and seeing if is head would hit the roof; and there we were, sitting uncomfortably on the unmade bed of his 28 year old Nissan Urvan, he demonstrating how he could reach the fridge without getting up. (Morgan and his van are the same age.  This is the main thing he loves about it).  Morgan is a French spearfisherman.  Not professionally, but he has all the gear and seems to know what he is talking about.  Unfortunately the water around Agnes Waters was too dirty for spearfishing.  Recent rains had muddied everything and so visibility was terrible.

Somehow we’d decided to go fishing off the rocks together.  We both had fishing rods and I had frozen squid and prawns to share.  Shana and Moz came with us as we headed along one of the bush tracks towards a back beach that had been recommended as the best bet for rock fishing.  We clambered down rocks to a windblown headland and quickly gathering stormclouds.  Two minutes in and rain began pelting down.  Serious heavy rain.  We sheltered under trees until the downpour passed.

Morgan quickly realised he would learn nothing from me.  Apart from the realisation that our rods were hopelessly inadequate for rock fishing, we had no success.  The wind was too strong, the surf too rough, our rods too short to clear anything.  After 15 minutes we gave up.  Defeated, we all trudged back to the campground.  I let Morgan keep some of the bait.  He was going fishing later, with Max, an easy-going dreadlocked Aussie boy who befriended most people in the camp.  Max was a good guy who could fish.  He’d already caught a large mackerel which fed him and Morgan and The Germans.  (The Germans are Daniel and Anika, a young couple (obviously from Germany) doing the East Coast in a Ford Fiesta, sleeping beneath a small, flimsy tent and two dollar shop tarp).   I’m happy to announce that Morgan and Max caught nothing that evening.  Obviously there was only a single fish lost in the ocean around Agnes Waters and it had already been caught.  I give Workman’s Beach Camping Area 4 ½ stars out of 5.  It is a fantastic place, almost as good as Goolawah (see Blog entry 1).  It has surf, sun and a town nearby.  The toilets flush and you can drink the water.  If for some reason you were homeless and had to live rough or out of your car then this is the place to come to.  Some people even believe fish can be caught here.

 

NIGHT  86  -  FIRST POINT CARAVAN PARK, AGNES WATERS.

Workman’s was fantastic but we had a pile of dirty laundry and we hadn’t had a hot shower ourselves for a week.  We weren’t really sure where we were headed next and so went for the softest option of all – the caravan park a kilometre back down the road.

 

First Point hadn’t changed during the week.  It was still too expensive and un-necessarily dingy.  But, again, it served its purpose.  We did what we needed to do and plotted a possible trajectory for the weeks to come.