Mooloolaba Surf Club

‘I am… I find thi… THIS IS WEIRD!’ He exerts slamming his palms on the table.

She laughs. The kind of muffled but loud enough laugh for people around to notice.

‘No, seriously. This is like an Australian culture that’s familiar but so unfamiliar to me.’ He looks around the restaurant and bar. This might be the first surf club he’s ever been too. From the Keno to the Surf memorabilia littered on the wall to the weird meat Auction that keeps being pitched over the loud speaker, he knew this place, but didn’t know it at the same time. ‘It’s like everything I knew in the 90’s kept going and made this.’

She laughs again. This one was less muffled.

As he approaches the bar he knew instantly that they’d be able to tell he’s not a local. ‘Can I get a pint of Fat Yak?’ He asks the bartender. She quickly glances him over, grabs a glass and levers the tap to start pouring. 

Wait a second, he thought. That’s the biggest fucking pint I’ve ever seen.

He brings it back to the table and stares at at.

‘What’s wrong?’ She asks.

‘Look… at the size of this pint. This isn’t a pint. It’s a fucking bucket!’

He wasn’t wrong. Pints in Melbourne were about half the size.

Mooloolaba Surf Club. What a weird place for a guy from the suburbs of Melbourne. Beach life hadn’t always been his interest. His grandparents had a beach house in Dromana but he hated going as a kid. He hated getting sand in his shoes, or the taste of salt water, or how your towel always gets blown by the wind and sand creeps onto it throughout the day. Only in the last 5 years had he begun thinking how life giving the ocean was and how appealing being close to it was.

The rain stopped them from sitting outside, but he could steal hear the waves crashing up against the beach. An endless cycle of sound, never to end.

‘Let’s go.’ She says. They walk outside, light a joint, talk some more shit and drive back to the apartment.