Boatman calls me his ‘city girl’ which I’ve always found kind of ironic. Stick me in a big city like Sydney or Melbourne and I’ll stick out like a very sore, bogan-esque big thumb. In my opinion, there is nothing ‘city’ about me. I’m most comfortable in thongs (or now my Mox) and shorts and a singlet. I have no desire to drink coffee at chic cafe’s (or at all really), and my sense of fashion is based entirely on comfort.
Apparently this means nothing (or at least very little.) Whilst anyone from the major capitals might notice my tourism status straight up, to a man from a small country town, I’m all city. (I’d like to say class, but that’s pushing it just a bit too far.)
Boatman grew up fishing in his every spare minute, 4WDing for fun and spending summers camping on a beach, where the bathroom facilities consisted entirely of a piece of toilet paper and a hole in the ground.
When my step dad took me fishing, I stayed in the car and read my book. I had never driven down anything more than a dusty dirt track (and they are never very nice) and camping for me, consisted of a a camp ground, a cabin and a never ending supply of chocolate.
As for the beach, all I could think of was crocodiles and sand in places where sand really shouldn’t be.
So when Boatman suggested a beach camping trip over New Year, I agreed with a small amount of reluctance, thinking that I could quite possibly cope with one or two nights which is what he has gradually built me up to.
What I was not counting on was three nights, one tiny bar of reception unless I trekked up a rather large sand dune, freezing winds (remembering I’m from the North), and a toilet that looks like this.
Let me tell you, cleaning up skid marks from this dunny: Worst job ever.
I suggested very nicely and gently that perhaps two nights would be plenty, because there is only so long this apparent city girl can go with sand in between her toes, and bed sheets that exfoliate her legs ever time she dares to roll over.
Of course my wish for cleanliness and the need for eye liner were mistaken for a desire to be home and within 3G range for the first IBOT of the year, which was of course ridiculous. I had a mountain and my own little plug in wireless for that!
I did my best to convince him that there is only so long I could happily endure living like Burke and Wills (who no doubt had to climb hills to telegraph back home as well), but Boatman put his foot down. We were staying three nights and four days and that was it. It would be fun, and relaxing and I would thoroughly enjoy myself.
It’s very rare that this scenario happens in our marriage. We make most decisions together and take into account the others needs/desires/addictiveness to social media.
But on the random times it does, my attitude is to let Boatman take the lead, and do it with the very best attitude I can muster.
I’m so glad I did.
The beach in the part of the world is beautiful. The water is cool but not too cold, and the waves lap up to kiss your feet as you walk along the oceans edge
At night the moon is a glorious red, until it finally rises to reflect over the water, almost like a second sun.
The waves are loud and ferocious, but waking up at night to hear them is not scary or annoying, but rather comforting and beautiful.
And the view from my FaceBook hill?
Well that’s worth climbing for even without the social media fix.
So this morning I wandered down the beach, enjoying the serenity, and the sun and even the sand that is glued to every part of my body, and I realised that the moral of the story, is that you should listen to your husband.
There’s a pretty good chance they might be right. 🙂