We’ve left the state of Victoria behind. The temperature has finally started climbing properly. While I triumphantly peel off my warm layers and happily welcome the scorching sunshine, Tim celebrates by sweating through his clothes.
Bucka, our lovingly nicknamed Fiat Scudo, starts showing the first signs of protest against the rising temperatures. It seems the air conditioning has run out of refrigerant, so cooling ourselves is out of the question for now. Since Christmas holidays here also happen to be summer holidays, finding a mechanic is about as difficult as reaching the Tax Office in June back home in Croatia, when everyone’s suddenly “using up last year’s annual leave.”
The next three weeks and five thousand kilometres are spent improvising.
A tiny USB fan clipped between the front seats works overtime while the seats steadily soak up the sweat of two overheated travellers.
Somewhere between endless plains that have faded from green into dry shades of yellow and the small towns that look as though they’ve wandered straight out of a Western movie, we decide that cooling off in the ocean has become a necessity.
Byron Bay, once the legendary hippie surfers’ paradise and nowadays a holiday destination for wealthy Sydneysiders will be the place for our first swim.
Given its reputation as one of Australia’s trendiest destinations, I’m expecting the Australian version of Hvar’s Carpe Diem at the peak of the July season.
Instead, finding a parking space in Australia’s equivalent of Hvar Harbour turns out to be surprisingly easy, and there isn’t a crowd in sight.
Rather than loud music and girls carrying cocktails, I’m greeted by an atmosphere that reminds me of Czech tourists on the Makarska Riviera before the high season begins.
Intoxicated by the sea, sunshine, and waves, barefoot, sunburnt, and carrying surfboards under their arms, people drift lazily to and from the beach.
The café overlooking the sea, rather than being the most popular place in town, is half empty.
Instead of pounding music, all I hear is the roar of the waves crashing onto the shore, loud enough to be heard from the car park.
The sound of the ocean grows louder with every step, while my childlike excitement over finally seeing a sandy beach quickly turns into the very real pain of walking barefoot across scorching sand.
As I hop from foot to foot, cursing the moment I decided to leave my sandals in the van pretending to be cool barefoot Aussie, one of the lifeguards comes running towards us.
“Guys, I’m sorry, but swimming is prohibited,” he calls out, pointing towards a yellow warning sign displaying the silhouette of a shark.
“We’ve spotted several sharks, and schools of fish, their prey, keep swimming through the shallows, so we’re monitoring the situation,” he explains, standing perfectly still on the burning hot sand in his red and yellow lifeguard uniform.
“Well… of course. How else could this possibly have gone?” I mutter to myself in disbelief, already starting to laugh.
I look at Tim, expecting the same level of shock.
Instead, he casually shrugs.
“Let’s just go to the next beach.”
Apparently, those extra hundred and fifty metres are an insurmountable distance for sharks.
While I carefully avoid even the edge of the water, Tim, together with several other Australians, including some of the lifeguards, casually strolls through the shallows.
Am I really the only responsible person on this beach? I wonder, desperately trying to remember anything I know about first aid.
Without success.
The only advice that comes to mind is the completely ridiculous family wisdom that, if attacked by a shark, you should quickly stick your arm into its mouth, grab it by the tail, and somehow turn it inside out.
Having already accepted my fate as the beach’s sole survivor, I’m treated to another shock when I notice a whole group of surfers riding waves at that “other” beach.
“See? If the surfers are out there, it must be safe to swim. They’re much better shark bait than ordinary swimmers,” Tim remarks cheerfully.
That comment not only confirms my decision to stay out of the water, it also shatters my dreams of ever learning to surf.
My only remaining option is to climb onto a rocky lookout and watch them fearlessly living their version of Carpe Diem.
As I watch people riding the waves and nostalgically conclude that my next time in the sea will probably involve tying charter guests’ boats to the dock once I’m back home, a loud “Wow!” from the other side of the lookout suddenly grabs my attention.
A group of French tourists quickly explain that, just beyond the rocks, barely twenty metres away from the surfers, an entire group of sharks is actively hunting.
And sure enough, between the waves crashing against the rocks, a fin breaks the surface every few seconds as the sharks chase a school of fish.
They’re hunting together.
The fish have nowhere to go.
I stare in disbelief at the surfers, who seem completely unconcerned by this game of cat and mouse unfolding beside them.
As more Australians continue walking into the water, I appoint myself guardian of humanity and warn every single one of them that there are sharks just around the corner.
“Yeah, we know,” they reply while heading into the sea.
“But if they’re hunting over there, it means they aren’t over here.” they casually reply.
Trying to decide whether they’re being sarcastic or simply Australian, I watch as Tim joins the swimmers without so much as a goodbye or any survival instructions.
Abandoned and left to my fate, I accept the inevitable.
In the end, I find the much needed refreshment under the beach showers.
The European way.
On safe ground.