A lie in until 10:00, what a treat! We have the flat to ourselves as Mark and Cronan have to work so we take showers and put some washing on, have a spot of breakfast and catch up with our journals.
We climbed back into the car and made our way over to Euston Road to collect the parcel from FedEx. 'I've come to collect a package' I say. 'Well, which one?' says the man in the wrong job. 'Here's the tracking number' I say, passing him the slip that was posted through Mark's letterbox yesterday. Why couldn't he have just asked me for the waybill number? He appears with the parcel and I inspect it, check the despatch note and waybill number and notice the absence of a receipt regarding the GST I paid yesterday. He looked on the screen and said there was nothing there, I would have to contact customer services and get them to send me a receipt. I couldn't quite hear whether he'd said that he would contact customer services or that I should and asked 'you will, or I will?' to which he, again condescendingly, retorted 'you will, I'm not phoning them.' What an arse! I am sure he must be in the wrong job! At this point he discovered the receipt was attached to the underside of the package and I apologised for not seeing it there myself. I then, mistakingly, broached the subject of GST. I asked him if he thought I might be able to reclaim the GST as I would be leaving the country within thirty days. Before I could finish asking him he was shaking his head and saying he didn't know, I would have to speak to the tax office. Surely he must have some idea given that they are so quick to charge GST? I found him to be very rude and unhelpful indeed.
Mum had wrapped the package up incredibly well and I took my frustration out on it, ripping the many layers of parcel tape and paper and when I reached the string I carefully untied the numerous knots. By the time I had finished unwrapping each layer Ian had driven us all the way back to Mark's flat, nine kilometres away through thick traffic!
We spent the next hour or so playing with our new toys, reading the instruction manuals and setting the date, time and dual time features and observing the temperature that each computer was reading, 32 degrees in the flat in the shade which reduced to 29 degrees when I took it off my wrist.
We had every intention to go into the city and do something constructive like walk around the Royal Botanic Gardens and visit Sydney Opera House but, realising it was 15:00 and we hadn't had any lunch we decided to have a relaxing day doing nothing. So we ate our tin of soup that we have been carrying around for three weeks in the boot of the car and read some more about our dive computers.
At 17:00 we donned our swimsuits and walked down to Bronte Beach. I sat in the warm sun for a little while while Ian ran down to the shoreline and dipped his toes in, then came running back to me exclaiming the water was a bit cold! 'Get in there!' I tell him. 'What, you're not joining me?' 'In a bit...' I say dismissing him and off he goes. I watched him for several minutes, wave diving, skindiving and frantically signing back to me that all is well. Then I decided to join him.
Well, this was the first time I had ventured into the ocean since 'Eua and I seem to have developed myself a fear of waves. The waves at Bronte are quite big and powerful with a very strong undertow. The first wave I reached came straight towards me as I tried to go out into the ocean to where Ian was. I withstood it but got plenty of water in my eyes and some up my nose. The biggest problem was the fear I felt as the whitewater came towards me. I realised its power and had an instant recollection of the whitewater rafting in Victoria Falls. I was frightened and moved to shallower depths only to feel the strong undertow beneath me. I stood at the edge of the water for a couple of minutes then Ian spotted me and came out to join me. He showed me how his computer was telling him it was 4 minutes since his last skindive. I shared my fear with him and we both went back into the surf and jumped the waves to reduce the level of impact. I spent the next 30 minutes confronting my fear and Ian went back into deeper water to play with his computer. I left the water, at 23 degrees Ian told me, and waited for Ian in the sun, pleased that I had dealt with my fear a bit and realising I may have an issue when I make my next dive. Ian continued to play for another hour while I watched a father and son have a fabulous time in the surf.
A man and his son had come down to Bronte Beach. On arrival the man had dressed his son in a pair of swimming trunks, with 'Bronte' embossed on the back, then attached a floating device to his son's back. The man then took his son, who can only be four years old, and a boogie board into the surf. His son was positioned on the board and the man held onto the board around his son and made his way out to the depths, lifting his son out of the surf on the board so he doesn't get a face full of saltwater. When they reached a decent wave, which didn't take long, the man spun the board around, facing the shore, and both father and son rode the wave all the way in to the beach! This procedure was followed many times and I could only watch with admiration that the man was very skilled to be able to ride the wave all the way in and that this little boy was very, very lucky and has a very dedicated father. He was clearly enjoying himself very much!
We walked back to the flat where Mark cooked us another great WeightWatchers dinner, lebanese pizzas, and we all enjoyed another couple of bottles of wine.
At 23:30 I left the men to it, only to wake at 02:00 to find a drunken Ian wandering into the room, unbeknown to him what he had been drinking. I sent him back out to fetch me some water. [Editors Note: Ian, having just read this last paragraph, has no recollection of fetching me some water...]
Copyright 2003 Helen Fuller. All rights reserved.