Camping in Margaret River

The reggae beat thumped to a stop as the car engine turned off in the abandoned parking lot at Bunker Bay. We got out and grabbed a small flashlight to explore the still darkness for a good campsite on the beach. I shivered with excitement in the crisp winter air, my first camping trip in Australia. Waves crashed wickedly in the unfathomable distance, somewhere close by hidden in the deep black night. It was only 6:30 but endless stars speckled the clear moonless sky. I climbed blindly across the sandy rocks trying to feel for my next step as I made my way down to a small beach cove. Tim decided it would be a good place to camp so we grabbed the tent, grocery bags of food and the guitar. Tim and I set up the tent while Carter pointed the narrow flashlight beam toward our endeavor flicking it away occasionally as he worried about the rising tide. A few minutes the tent was set up, looking like a giant green cocoon nesting among the broken seashells and sand on the beach.We began to search the woods for sticks and wood to start a fire. The blackness turned grey as I let my eyes adjust, feeling the wet sand for something to burn and I magically found a pile of sticks ready for a fire. My hunger hopped to hurry along the process as I leaned against a rock watching Carter meticulously build a stick teepee that he finally lit. The flames flickered momentarily eating the paper and disappearing again not strong enough to chew through the hard dry wood. We fed it more paper the next time, gently blowing it until the small sticks began to glow red. Flames licked the wood and grey smoke flooded my face, burning my eyes as I turned away happily enveloped by the smell of a smoky bonfire and the salt of the ocean spray.Plastic grocery bags crinkled as Tim and Carter dug around for sandwich ingredients, I was starving and so happy to eat my cold veggie burger and naan bread. I took a sip of cheap Port and passed the bottle along as the sweet alcohol warmed my throat. Waves against rocks beat the percussion rhythm until fingers picked guitar string melodies. Tim and Carter passed the old guitar back and forth, singing and strumming as I hummed along from my rock near the whistling flames. I stared up at the stars endless glitter, the thick Milky Way draping diagonally like a banner across the sky. I stayed by the smoldering fire to eat chocolate and keep warm while Tim and Carter took a walk down the beach. I listened to the hushing waves, lulling me to sleep as my thoughts melted into dreams. My eyelids flickered open occasionally as the flames turned to coals then ashes. When Tim and Carter came back I walked up to the car where I planned to sleep; I was blind in the silent darkness in the back of the locked car, the kind of scary stillness that waits to be broken by a scream. I walked back through the darkness carrying a big pile of blankets and pillow toward the beach. The boys laughed but where happy to see I was joining them in the tent by the waves. All three of us climbed into the tent and fell asleep quickly to the raspy ocean hum. I opened my eyes in the orange gray morning light, listening to the wakening waves crash closer and closer to our tent yelling at us to wake up. I fell in and out of sleep easily until Tim and Carter opened their eyes. I pulled on my shoes and stepped outside to watch the threatening waves reach out to grab our tent before running away.The sky was heavy with sickly green gray clouds ready to spew out rain at any moment. We packed up the tent then sat at a picnic table on the hill to eat a delicious breakfast of peanut butter and banana sandwiches as the rain began to spatter down.Finishing one last bite, we jogged to the car and continued our adventure. We decided to drive down Caves Road toward Margaret River looking for surf breaks, wineries and anything interesting that came along. Sugarloaf was nearby so we stopped to check out the surf, the first of many surf breaks for the day. Next we stopped at the Yallingup Maze for a coffee although I silently protested it having driven by the touristy blight of the wine region so many times when I lived nearby. The café workers were nice though and Tim and Carter sat mesmerized trying to work out the puzzles at the table. There were all sorts of puzzles, like the ones you find in truck stops in Arkansas where you have to get the metal loop off a stick or organize little wooden rings in order of size. I couldn't be bothered working out puzzles at 8am so I enjoyed a nice magazine while sipping a warm chai latte. It was a gloomy cold morning when we began to drive again. We passed the tattered sign for surf art and red bucket of $2 flowers that I had sparked my curiosity so many times. Tim decided we should turn back and check it out so we agreed excitedly not knowing what to expect. I stepped out onto the gravel parking lot and walked under the woodbeamed front porch littered with puddles of seashells, soggy paintings of waves and broken surfboards with childlike drawings of the ocean caked over with glitter. I walked through the doorless frame into a living room layered with paintings, old beat up instruments, piles of books, newspaper clippings and random notes from previous visitors and friends. As I stared at a pastel colored dramatization of a surf break I heard a car door shut, a dog saunter across pavement and a friendly hello from outside. A lady with blond wavy hair and cheap blue ski overalls said hello, introduced herself as Deslie and started talking about the mushrooms she had just picked from in front of some posh winery nearby. She invited us inside to play her guitars and play her instruments which Tim and Carter had already been eyeing. Tim picked up a twelve string guitar and Carter grabbed the slide guitar and a brass slide. They starting strumming and sliding eventually harmonizing into a song reminiscent of last night's beach concert. I kneeled down on the damp triple layered carpet speckled with glitter and black dog hair. Deslie carried on an endless progression of words about everything from music to Margaret River, back aches to surf breaks to using pepper or spiderwebs to stop bleeding, all while sipping low alcohol wine. She played us a song about living down south in Margaret River and being stuck in the 70s then happily listened to the boys play guitar and sing. She asked me if I played any instruments or sang and basically forced me to sing a song. She wanted me to sing Amazing Grace so Carter started playing the cords but she was like no no I want to hear your version everyone sings it differently, just sing. So kneeling in the glitter in the stillness of a rainy morning, I sang my acapella version of Amazing Grace and watched Deslie almost cry as I sang the last note. Not the response I expected since I think of myself as someone who just hits the notes after deciding singing was not for me long ago. Funny that that song keeps coming up, my nickname, my middle name. It was freeing to just let go and sing, stop holding everything in and worrying but just be me. I smiled as Tim and Carter sang a few more songs until we finally decided to say goodbye. Deslie got up and gave me a hug handing me a free copy of her CD after writing a note in the front cover, she said "Find your voice gal, you have to use your gifts".Words of wisdom from the old hippie lady left me feeling happy and inspired, not really to sing but to truly find my voice and share it, to figure out why I'm here and where I'm going.At least an hour or two had passed in Deslie's hippie wonderland and it was almost noon as we started driving again. We stopped for wine tasting at Juniper then Vasse Felix across the street. We drove by vineyards stripped bare by the rain, brown and barren, so foreign from the lush green grape laden vines I drove by everyday a few months ago as I worked the harvest. Memories of sunny afternoons flashed by my window as tears of winter rain washed them away, reminding me that there is a season for everything and I would soon be leaving this place and these people in search of sunny days far from here, it was my time to move on. We stopped at surfers point at Prevelly beach and watched the wind rip through the waves as kite surfers zig zagged through the furious waters. The sky was a wicked gray and blowing rain nudged my back until I turned to run and jump inside the warm car. I was craving the comfort of chocolate on a cold day so we stopped for some free samples then tasted a few wines at Hayshed Hill as the afternoon light faded even more. Bootleg brewery was the last stop so we bought a beer and joined a couple people at a bar table near the heater. They were from America too, the guy was the epitome of a California surf dude who was now a winemaker at a nearby winery and the girl was just visiting on holiday. It was fun talking to them and adding them to the list of interesting people we had met that day. The sun was gone and the air was dark and cold as we drove back, lights flashed by and I squinted out the window looking for kangaroos and constellations. An amazing day filled with strange inspiration, a new perspective of returning to a place I lived not long ago, one last goodbye as winter arrived in that season of my life and I would soon be looking for summer elsewhere.