An easterly wind is howling off the ocean as I sit in my parent's lounge overlooking the bay. I've only been back in my hometown for hours but already I am desperate to leave. For hours I have been sitting wrestling with the Indian Government's online visa form , trying to get my ducks sorted so I can escape. This view that many call beautiful is to me unbearably familiar . My mind is in a twisted knot of anxiety, fighting against this place. I'm craving exotic colours, smells and sights, or just to be anywhere but here.
The wind screams and howls, gnawing at my attention like a nagging voice in the ear. I don't want to go out in that wind, in that view, but I badly need some exercise. I drive to the rockiest, most exposed piece of coastline I can find and make my way down a steep, rocky path. Surprisingly the wind seems quieter. The slow rhythm of the swell coming in from the deep turquoise ocean calms my mind as the wind whips the waves into elegant arcs.
There's no one else around. I take off my clothes and run naked over the sand. Further up the beach the shifting geological forms holds my attention and my mind lets go some of it's stress. The wind is a gentle whisper as it slides over my body. There are vivid purple and orange crabs scuttling over the barnacle encrusted rocks. Something about their urgency, the fearless way in which they stand and raise their claws to a creature ten times their size, brings me further into the moment.
Heading back up the path to the carpark a deadly venomous tiger snake stirs in the bushes. It's beady black eye holds me steadily. Faced with this threat my mind releases the last vestiges of it's torpor. I am finally in the moment and i'm happy about it. Contentedness fills me as I drive home.
The next day I am still trying to sort out that Visa. The wind is back and so is that anxious feeling, Some people say that the huge hills of granite that this town is built around have an effect on the mental illness rate around here. I'm not going to let them drag at me. In all my years growing up here there is one hill that I have not yet conquered. Out past the airport I park up next to a sign that says 'quarry' and climb up past mounds of shattered rock and earthmoving machines. A huge hole 100 metres wide and deep opens up before me. The urge to conquer recedes. The hill is tame and subdued, it's heart torn out and it's spirit long departed.
On the road above me a fox is making his way down the hill. He's like an immigrant without a visa as he furtively looks around for threats. The wind blows behind me, he catches my scent and scurry's back up to the the patch of native bush that still remains on the crest. I walk up amongst the huge granite boulders that collide together to form half caves.
Strange gouges have been worn out of the rocks. Either by wind or ocean long ago, they form catacomb-like alcoves giving it the feeling of a warped church. There's a golden haze over the farmlands and bush below. I sit and quietly hum to myself as I take in the view. I barely even notice that the pressure that was in my head has gone.
On the third day the wind has died down but I still feel low. My father piles surfboards in the car and I half heartedly climb in. We park at an almost sheer cliff and navigate down a set of rickety stairs. The tide is low and sharp barnacle covered reefs have emerged from beneath the sands. We paddle out through the lattice of whitewater, wary of being washed back onto the shells. I don't have to sit long before my wave comes. The moment hits me in an instant as I tear across the face, plugged into the electric kinetic energy of the ocean. I surface in the whitewater and try to head back out for another. But it's as if the ocean is angry at me for tearing this joy from her bosom. Wave after wave comes in and forces me back. I slip through the gap in the reefs and beach myself on the sand.
The next day the sun is out. I get my Visa application finished but i'm no longer in such a rush to be gone.
In some places it just take a bit longer to say hello.
