Stacks of Surfers End magazines lay on my nightstand. I reach around them to grab my laptop and punch a few keys to bring up my bank account. I officially have less than I paid for my first board in it. Fuck me—where did all my money go? My brilliant plan of living off the rent didn’t work out so well. I shut the lid and lean back thinking about what I’ll do when I get home for money. An hour passes before I decide to get up. When I do, I glance out to the majestic shoreline I’ve enjoyed so much and see families already frolicking on the beach and lifeguards in their signature red and yellow swim caps monitoring them for safety. It’s a slow and easy way of life here—one I could very easily get used to.
My clothes are neatly piled on top of the dresser ready to be placed in my bag. My journal is packed, the one I haven’t been able to write in. I survey the room for what’s left—not that there’s much. All I’ll have to do before I leave for the airport is grab my duffle, my briefcase, and my board. But I have time so I quickly shower and head to the Bucket List for breakfast. The diner spills out onto the beach with its wide patio. It’s one of my favorite views of the Pacific. I could sit here for hours staring at the coastline, the glistening sand, and the stone cliffs. The place itself looks like a pirate ship with its faux fisherman style décor, complete with lobster pot lampshades on every table and a namesake mural that looks like a map lining the walls. The only difference being the purpose of the mural is to record your bucket list items and not navigate the sea.
“You’re finally doing it today?” my waiter Scott asks, pointing to the sharpie I have in my hand.
I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “I am.”
“Way to go man, you did it.” He raises his hand and I slap it.
After I drink a cup of coffee, I approach the iconic wall with my marker and write my checked off items on it. It reads:
Ben Covington
Jog the Bondi Bronte Cliff Walk
Brave the surf at Tamarama
Yes, I did do it. I rode the waves of Tamarama yesterday despite its ferocious currents and strong riptides. It took me six months to get back in shape but I can now say: mission accomplished.
Time grows short and I move through town in an effort to say my goodbyes—not only to the locals but also to the places. I stop at Icebergs. It’s a local bar with its own outdoor pool wedged right into a cliff. The pool refills itself with seawater whenever waves crash against the rocks below it. And the joint itself is filled with happy, friendly people. No one cares what demons you carry. They’re just here to have a good time. Not to mention, the deeply tanned waitresses saunter around taking drink orders wearing skimpy bikinis . . . talk about living life easy.
Living in the Bondi bubble . . . life couldn’t be sweeter. But my visit here today isn’t to enjoy the pool or talk to the waitresses, it’s to say goodbye to Kale Alexander, the owner’s son. He and I hit it off right from the start. He reintroduced me to what I once loved—writing. Not just the thrill of catching the story that I had become addicted to, but he reacquainted me with the passion I once felt for words.
Kale writes for Surfers End Magazine and is worried he’ll be losing his job soon. The publication is tanking in circulation. We’ve had in-depth discussions as to why. His view was very eye opening but I didn’t necessarily agree with it.
When I walk in he’s sitting where he always does—a table near the railing overlooking the water, notebook in hand. He’s old school—no laptop, just pen and paper. Ironically, I think that’s the issue with the magazine—they need to enter the world of technology.
I clasp his shoulder. “Hey, man, how’s it going?”
He looks up, lifting his shades. “Just trying to figure it all out.”
I sit across from him. “That’s heavy for this early in the day.” I bob my chin to one of the waitresses and hold up two fingers. She smiles and I direct my attention back to Kale. “Care to elaborate?”
He sets his pad down and leans with his elbows on the table. “Surfing is at a crossroads.”
“What do you mean?”
“Too many of us out there.”
I scrunch my brows together.
He points out to the water. “Watch that.”
I do. Two, three, four, five surfers systematically fading with one another in what at first seems to be some strange choreography. However, once the wave rolls over the surfers are shaking their fists at one another—obviously fighting for the waves and not bothering to wait their turn.