On the southern coast of Australia's Victoria, a town called Torquay embraces a cold ocean. Bells Beach is there, a famous surfing destination. Sandstone cliffs and golden beaches are there, made famous by The Great Ocean Road.
The sea, oh God the sea is cold. Out there is Bass Strait then Tasmania, then The Southern Ocean and beyond that Antarctica. Swimmers and surfers alike wear wet suits, and if they don't they're not in the water long.
I was there with friends for ANZAC day long weekend. We stayed in an apartment that looked over the main beach and the weather was perfect. We could see across to Mt. Martha blue distant along the coast. In the morning, the sun rose over the sea and it was impossible not to feel religious. I muttered:
"If there is a God then that rising orange is it, and I am it and it is me." I said it softly so no one could hear, I preferred to be private with thoughts of what God might be.
We drank red wine and ate on the balcony overlooking The Esplanade. We fried little sausages on a bbq and had them with mustards between toasted grainy bread . Then dressed chops, and later homemade beef paddies. We didn't really have set meals, but lots of modest snacks as we watched people walk up and along the beach. The people were with dogs, with children, with family members. Different people, different relationships, weaving thousands of stories amongst them like intricate ribbons. We watched a man set up a tight rope between two trees, he drew a little crowd as he bounced and jumped and showed great balance and strength. Children wanted to have a go, and he was kind and patient as fathers held them up to the strapping.
Out in the sea kite surfers caught wind in enormous sails and darted and flew amongst the waves. I had heard that shipping containers were using similar but probably much bigger sails to help lessen the fuel cost across the Oceans. I imagined for a moment that it was a sign that the prominent societies were for the first time moving backwards. Would shipping containers turn entirely to wind as of the old Great Ships? I dismissed the thought as a wandering one and we got up from the balcony to joined the people below, an ivory tower can come in many forms and is only good for moments as they provoke strange thoughts.
The coastline around Torquay was a training ground for Australian troops during the Great War. The cliffs and beaches were similar to Gallipoli's. There's an old photo of a Light Horse Brigade on the beaches below me, four hundred horses, what a thundering they would have made! I wondered if the people around me in market day happiness would turn to panic if the long lost brigade suddenly appeared in full charge. Dogs would curl tails, children weep and mothers, fathers, uncles and aunts fall under the hoofs of war horses. I shake the imagination off as I join the people.
The sublime day travels with the sun's pace and the blue of the sky is caught by the sea. My friend's dog, a puppy still, is alive with running and meeting other dogs. The dogs are all pals, all eager to be best friends. So are we and as a group we chat to other groups, not mentioning that in the morning the Dawn Service would not allow speech.
The night arrives and we cook a final bbq. Indulge ourselves once more then go to bed. My English friends won 't go to the service, but I will. I'm Australian. I set my alarm for 5:30am and fall asleep feeling like I belong to a lucky people and that a small sacrifice of an early rise is worth it. But I don't go.
I snooze two sets of 9 minutes. I peek over the balcony when I finally rouse and look at the columns of people making their way to Point Danger for the service. I don't want to go. Am I lazy? Am I bad? Is it indifference? Was the feelings I felt yesterday a lie, an illusion? I go back to bed, guilty but defiant:
"It is personal." I mutter and try to fall back to sleep but can't.
At seven I go out. Before my friends are up and after the Dawn Service is done. I need bread for breakfast. I put on shorts and a T shirt with a symbol of an atom. The atom has a big red nucleus like an eye and the orbital paths of electrons speak of no God. I learn later that it is the sign of an atheist. Later still I wonder if I was thought of as a nuclear weapon protester. I join the columns of people returning from the Dawn Service, clad in coats and trousers and sensible shoes. I join them in my white atom atheist T shirt, denim shorts and thongs. I stand out. I catch the attention of a woman in military uniform, she holds my eye and my ego tells me it's because she notices something in me that I don't notice myself. Then an old man with a bar of medals across his breast looks at me and winks. For this I wonder why. Even so I say:
"Mornin'!" Hoping he wouldn't ask what I thought of the service. I am walking with columns of solemn people hoping the bakery is open. Thinking I am bad and a waste. I should be cold and thoughtful. I think of the thunderous brigade of horseman I imagined the day before coming at us, I close my eyes as hoofs boom and let them trample me, let them fall yet impale and kill me. The woman in uniform catches my eye once more, searching beyond my atom T shirt. I smile hoping she can see I remember, and see the ghostly horse brigade around me.
