January 17, 2013
The pub’s empty and it’s happy hour. Score. Plus, there’s a surfboard up for grabs and the more you drink the more draw tickets you earn so we giver. I’m on the vodka. He gets beer.
Five drinks later, we’re bored of the scene so we take a walk. He’s drunk. I feel sober. Must be the Irish.
We walk towards the beach. Gentle breeze, starry night sky, sweet sound of the ocean: the perfect set-up to make a move.
He plants one.
I count to five then withdraw. It’s too soon. Too soon since the last.
“I’m not ready to get into this,” I admit.
“Oh, it’s ok. I understand. Just testing the waters.”
We walk back to the pub. Instead of hanging around for the surfboard raffle, I bail. What the heck was I going to do with a 5’3 stumpy anyways? Sell it on gumtree. He’s too drunk to drive so he crashes in his car. I splurge on a hostel.
The next morning we meet at The Wreck. Small surf, but I’m so stoked on two-feet waves. Low stress. I paddleout in a black bikini, hair down, crystal blue stud earrings. He watches from the shore ‘cause he’s working… as a lifeguard.
I sat out there for about three hours catching everything that came my way.
“I bet she’s Māori,” I hear one dude say. (Nope, I’m actually a fucking gringa.)
When I got back on land, he introduces me to his lifeguard mate and then asks,
“Did ya get any?”
Wow. For a lifeguard he’s not very observant.
“Ya, I got some,” Mr. Underwhelming.
“We should surf Tallows later. Lots of lefts there.”
“Ya, I need to practice those.” He WAS watching.
We make plans to meet up later that day, but he stands me up. Not even a phone call or text with some bullshit excuse. Bikini pic’s in the mail, asshole.
I’m left wandering Byron Bay alone with my pack and surfboard in tow. There are so many people here, and all I want to do is get the fuck back to Burleigh.