YAMBA

We climbed onto the bus at 11:00 pm.

It was a weekend and our destination was a 12-hour ride through a black morning—a journey through night to a city with no vacancies. Where will we sleep? We do not know. The Greyhound heaves into traffic and we roll toward the unknown.

10 hours later—and just two hours short of our intended destination—we find ourselves in a small beach town called Yamba. There is one hostel. The vibe is good. We’re starved, tired, and sick of bus seats. We decide to stay.

Everybody walks around sun-stained, tan, shirtless and smiling—surfboards beneath their arms, barefoot. They pick garden fruits and pass out cabbages, and everyone says hello—we stay for four days.

Again, I find myself unable to express something—writer though I may be—the sheer joy I felt in this place is indescribable.

Tom and I learned to surf.

There was cliff jumping, beaches, sun and ocean, moonlit walks, talks, pizza and friends.

Many thanks to Shane and his fabulous tour.

I will say no more—let us keep this place a secret.