It was 2007 on Australia Day at Windang, south of Wollongong in NSW.
My car with sand in all of it's orifices had been parked in the cool shade under a tree that swayed to the tune of the ocean wind and I'd stripped off down to my swimmers, hurriedly thrown the excess clothing in a crumpled pile on the back seat and taken out my board.
I had paddled, swum and kicked past the white, churning and breaking surf and was floating on my board in the calm, clear water with the white sands of the beach seemingly a million miles away.
The sun beat brightly and lit up my salty body to glisten, diamond like.
Elated and on a high I grinned at the vast and excessively blue sky.
Sky smiled right back at me.
There was no
Only zen like peace and sage like clarity.
It occured to me only recently that it was the last time I felt truly, wonderfully, child-like happy.
The elusive inner peace I had craved for so long was mine, if only for that incredibly brief, precious hour or two until I realised that being on my own in the ocean, having told no-one where I was and without anyone around me to help me were I to get into trouble was very, very foolish.
Reality does that though, it shits on you unsuspectingly, quickly and seemingly with glee, delighting at awakening you from your slumber of serenity and cutting your bliss deeply with a very sharp knife.
I've had my hopes and desires fall from my hands and shatter into a gazillion pieces and I've walked on those fucking shards of reality ever so painfully for the longest, longest time.
Eventually though, the pain and anger from love found and lost and the occurence of events beyond my control have slowly subsided.
Even the silent, salty tears have dried up and no longer fall.
I am for the most part - thank you very much - comfortably numb.
Yet even so, I hope to relive that precious, cherished day again.
One brilliant day.
Measuring the influence of Andrew Bolt
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