Won’t you come see about me?
I’ll be alone, dancing, you know it, baby

Tell me your troubles and doubts
Giving everything inside and out and
Love’s strange, so real in the dark
Think of the tender things that we were working on

Slow change may pull us apart
When the light gets into your heart, baby

Don’t you, forget about me
Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t
Don’t you, forget about me

(Simple Minds. Don’t You)

The Breakfast Club

6:20 AM. I’m late.

Not super late, mind you, but late enough that the two work-out guys have already claimed bench number two and are deep into their morning routine. I clutch my coffee (strong cap, extra hot) and scan the beach anxiously, ready for whatever today’s sunrise has to offer. I am relieved to see that my bench, the one under the large Norfolk Pine, is still vacant. I have to admit, I get a bit irritated when somebody is sitting on it so early in the morning. How dare they? I increase my speed and walk towards my bench, making sure it’ll be mine.

I retrieve several items from my tote bag (apparently all the hype according to my children): a towel (to sit on the bench slightly wet from the nighttime rain), my hat and gloves (winter mornings in Australia feels like 1 degree, though nobody back home believes me), my journal, my phone, my glasses. I am ready for my favourite morning ritual: watching the sunrise at the beach. Or more likely, watching the people around me that begin their day with their own little routine.

I call them The Breakfast Club. Though we never eat breakfast together, and most of us never have formally introduced ourselves. Yet we know each other, sometimes even by name. And by our shared love for early mornings spent at the beach.

The two work-out guys – one looks a bit like Ted Lasso – return from their warm-up jog and are now doing squats. One has poor form, and I am tempted to correct him, having my own issues in the past with proper squats, but I let it go. Over the years, these guys have accumulated quite the gear for their little pop-up gym at bench two: weights and yoga mats, jump ropes and sparring gloves. The newest addition: a bench press. I am impressed. And slightly annoyed by the noises they make now, punching each other’s gloves. Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! I try to focus on the calming sounds of the ocean. Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh.

Just when a certain sense of calmness begins to wash over me, I hear a familiar calling in the distance: Ahooohoooooooo! Mona has arrived. How can such a small person make such a huge noise! You can hear Mona a mile away! She hollers and laughs and screams and waves at everyone from the moment she arrives: while she sweeps the shower area of the Life Saving Club, during her ocean swim (only intensified by screams of being hit by the cold water), until she leaves an hour later. I swear, I can hear Mona all the way back to her house at the beach. Everyone knows Mona. I wonder why.

A more quiet regular – the old man with the goatee and the funky pink-and-white crocs. Dressed in swim shorts and a warm hooded towel, he doesn’t talk much. He arrives, stares at the cold ocean for a bit, stalling, goes for a swim, gets dressed and leaves again. He used to come here with his wife. An equally old and tiny sweet lady. Always holding hands. Always going into the water together, their matching crocs waiting for them side-by-side on the beach. Now it’s just his shoes sitting on the sand.

In the corner of my eye, I spot Bob, the photographer. Likes to take photos of the sunrise with his phone just like me. I see Bob at the bus stop sometimes. Or in the streets. Sometimes he stops to show me his newest shot. Always telling me a great story until my bus arrives and I have to cut him off. I call over to Bob : Good morning! He doesn’t hear me. Getting old is a bitch. Especially when you have no real home.

And then there are the dog people. The tall man with the tall Great Dane. With slobber all over him – the dog, not the man!

The old people. Starting yet another long and lonely day.

The surfers and the swimmers. The kayakers and nippers.

The runners and walkers.

The tired parents whose child in the stroller has been up for hours.

The lonely people. The only people.

The creep that shows up when no one else is here, asking to sit next to me when there are a million empty benches next to me (well, ok, only two, but seriously? Can he sit somewhere else?)

The familiar people. Like my friend Pete, who lost his wife six months ago. We sit every Sunday morning and watch the sky turn from purple to red to orange to blue. We talk and laugh. Sometimes we cry.

The sunrise changes every day. Some mornings are stunning (pink and gold and worth taking way too many photos of). Others are quiet, the sun sneaking up through clouds. Both work for me. If I’m honest, I am here for the ritual. Gets me out of bed (though usually not that late), keeps me from feeling lonely, gives me a purpose. I have friends and colleagues that tell me they look forward to my sunrise photos. Others tell me to fuckoff – but they say it with a smile.

Sitting here with my tote bag unpacked and coffee getting cold, I think about how this is what I love about living in Australia. The ocean, my job, the people. The Breakfast Club, though they probably don’t know how much I appreciate them. After all, most of us have never really introduced ourselves.

Tomorrow I’ll be back, hopefully a bit earlier than today. I’ll pack my apparently trendy tote bag, get my coffee, extra hot/extra shot, and head down to see what the sunrise brings. And to sit on my bench and watch the people around me.

I believe that we all have a desire for some kind of connection, even if they are temporary and unintentional. A sense of be-longing. Of being remembered.

I get up and start putting my belongings into the white canvas bag. The work-out guys have long packed up and left. Dogs and babies have come and gone, probably warming up at the local cafe with a hot coffee or a choccie. Even Mona can’t be heard anymore. Today’s sky is overcast and grey, and no real sunrise to be seen. In the end, it was never really about the sunrise. Or the ocean. Or even about my bench at the beach. Maybe it was about being part of something bigger, a shared connection. The Breakfast Club.

All that talk about breakfast made me hungry. I shoulder my tote, turn my back to the ocean, and walk towards the cafe. I don’t think they’ll have a Cap’n Crunch and Pixie Stix sandwich, but a good-old avo on toast will do.

Cheers!