There is something to be said for waking in the middle of the night and being mesmerized back to sleep by the repeating pattern of three light flashes on the bedroom wall as the Yamba Lighthouse swings across the near and far in order to keep the boats at sea and not on the beaches. Further, its nice to wake at dawn, slide the plate glass door across and have noise of the relentlessly pounding surf join you.
As I stood there in the first exploratory shafts of light which sought angles between palm fronds to find me, a chilly waft brushed against my exposed arms and the hairs on legs which jeans make you forget once May arrives. It was either the breeze or the movement of the hairs, waving like miniature stalks of wheat in a narrow field, which caused me to think about at least one extra layer but I toughed it out to watch the event. Why does every sunrise look new? How many fresh starts can the human race have?
This day was typically Yamba. Slow rise to gentle music and no real desire to seek or embrace hurry, should it mistakenly wander in. We decided to have breakfast elsewhere, so headed off to sister-in-law Rosemary's flat to drop off some items of exchange. When she wasn't there, we reluctantly tracked her down with a phone call and a few minutes later had effected the exchange.
From there it was down to Main Beach and the confrontation of the damage done recently by a combination of king tides and storm surges. As had been the case three years ago, the sand has been stripped from the beach, leaving large rock surfaces exposed and the remainder is a collection of constantly moving cricket ball sized rocks. For now, we took advantage of the kiosk (open only on weekends) and had bacon and eggs and tea: that's as much as I can say about the meal because the rest would discourage you far too much and ruin the romantic nature of the setting for readers ... as it did for us. Lance, Joel and Mandy joined us for casual conversation. Sue and Mandy walked through the surf.
In the afternoon, we gathered some groceries. I snapped the photo of the love and mung beans beauty shop which also supplies a counselling service. Time was when a crystal set was only for listening to Bradman smote the Poms.
Some consideration was given to visiting the picture theatre with its ever present impression that it will soon fall down but hopefully not while you are in it, but we opted instead for the reliable sensations of sunset drinks at the Pacific Hotel. The theatre was, for a short time a few years, back replicated in a tin shed out by the shopping plaza. Carpet had been rolled out across the cement floors and rows of theatre seats had been dyna-bolted in place. Curtains were a thin buffer between the customer and the galvanised ridges of the walls. It was hot in there in July but Dr Zhivago would slow cooked you in summer.
No dolphins or whales tonight, just another big tide attacking Main Beach. After a few bevies, we wandered down to the beach but it was a wild, white-watered place as King Neptune stole back what was left of the sand. With the tide up, we stood and listened to the unusual accompaniment of rocks rolling about on each other, like silly school boys, with each advance/retreat of the waves.
TV and an early finish.