Follow, follow the sun
And which way the wind blows
When this day is done

Breath, breath in the air
Set your intentions
Dream with care

Tomorrow is a new day for everyone

A brand new moon, brand new sun

Xavier Rudd. Follow the Sun

I decided that five is my lucky number. Five children. Five decades (and a bit). Birthday on the fifth. And five times here in Bondi to visit the Sculptures by the Sea.

What started in my first year here in Australia as a birthday weekend treat, has become an annual ritual for me: seeing the sculptures by the sea! Every year I treat myself to an overnight stay at the infamous Bondi Beach. Pretend I am a tourist (which I kind of am). Get a good night’s sleep, only to get up early in the morning to walk along the Bondi coastline from Bondi Beach to Tamarama Beach.

Along the way I take my time to take in the beautiful scenery in the morning light, admire the different pieces of art, take photos (lots of photos) and am simply happy to be alive.

And so this year isn’t any different. I endured the two-hour bus ride to get to Bondi. Fought off very aggressive seagulls at the beach who had invited themselves to my fish’n chips dinner. Watched the storm clouds roll in and lightening lite up the night sky over Bondi Beach. Only to wake up to a beautiful Saturday semi-sunrise at the beach. Ready for take off.

Walking along the Coastal Path early in the morning has a few advantages. First of all, it is my favourite time of the day. I love watching the sunrise no matter where I am. Second, there are no crowds – yet. This morning I met a woman from Slovakia and we had a short discussion about the cuts in funding for this amazing event. The occasional jogger ran by. But otherwise I had the path along the coast to myself. And finally, by the time the crowds start pouring in, I am done with my walk. Ready for a coffee and avo on toast. My perfect first date with myself.

So here are my top five of 2025. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did.

“Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more” (Macbeth). This sculpture spoke to me for obvious reasons. An idiot.. hat, glasses and a brush. The absurdity belies the anguish of an artist, anf the anguish in us all.* It’s also how I feel like a lot these days…

Lily, named after a pioneering open-water swimmer, reflects determination and vitality that challenges expectations. Capturing grace and resilience, she symbolises the courage to embrace possibility, inspiring empowerment and the freedom to dive into life. Though still very far off from being an open-water swimmer myself, I loved this lady in a bathing suit, swim cap and all.

Unseen challenges societal norms in capturing the beauty and strength of overlooked women aged 50 and beyond. Story of my life. Five alive!

Not sure what the title of this one was but it reminded me of my middle son who used to make wire trees like these in high school. It also soke to me as a symbol for putting down invisible roots. And then it made me think of this bonsai tree that my dad once had. I wonder what happened to it.

My favourite sculpture this year – For Peace by Ayad Alqaragholli, WA/Iraq. For me, it was the armchair that attracted me. Pulled me in. And I literally wanted to si down and rest In Peace. Reading up on this piece in the brochure, it is interesting how the same piece of art can have such different meaning to each of us. It is the raven this sculpture focuses on, symbolising worthy of recognition and grace. The chair represents the place of human dwelling, a universal symbol of where life is lived.

Five is my lucky number. And with my fifth year here in Sydney, it makes me think quite a bit about where my life is lived. Has been lived. Will be lived.

The other day, someone told me that if I managed to carry the beauty of the sunrise by the sea inside of me, maybe it wouldn’t really matter anymore where life is lived. Perhaps they are right. For now, I’m happy to make this annual pilgrimage to soak in the art and ocean air. To celebrate another year around the sun in this beautiful place I now call home.

“Around and around the wide Earth turns… a sleepy dancer” (Sculpture Is… Richard Tipping)

See you next year, Sculptures by the Sea!

Maybe I’m bound to wander
From one place to the next
Heaven knows why

But in the wild blue yonder
Your star is fixed
In my sky

Just another bar, at a cross roads
So far from home
But that’s alright
Whenever I’m going down the dark road
I don’t feel alone in the night

There’s a place in my heart
Though we’re far apart
May you always know?
No matter how long since I saw you
I keep the flame there for you
Wherever I go

Wherever I go. Mark Knopfler

A simple question really, but I struggle to answer it. Where’s home? somebody asked me the other day. Where are you from?

Sydney? (Well obviously I am not, as I do not sound anything close to someone from Sydney or Australia for that matter).

Canada? (Oh people love when you say that. Everybody loves Canada. Though often that leads to follow-up questions like “Oh yeah? Whereabouts? Vancouver?” And “What are you doing here?” Not necessarily a conversation I want to have with a random stranger).

Germany? (Europeans are interesting. Especially artsy ones. There’s a lot of generalisations going on).

My answer usually varies, depending on how much I am willing to share. But the question itself had me wondering: What is home to me?

---

It is Thanksgiving weekend in Canada and I know what everyone is doing. I can picture my children filling their plates with turkey and stuffing and cranberry sauce (can never have too much cranberry sauce), family gatherings, impromptu road hockey games or Scrabble games as my sons get older. I can hear them bickering and laughing and playfully arguing with each other. And I miss that. Being not there for family holidays is hard for me. Even if you are in a beautiful place like this one. And even if you made that choice to be somewhere else. Especially when you made that choice.

People tell me they live vicariously through me. The beautiful pictures I share. The stories I tell. Yet another fucking glorious sunrise I post. And look—I am aware of the beauty around me. And I know that being here is good for me. Being close to the ocean. Working a job that I enjoy (most of the time). Living according to my values. But is it home? To be honest I don’t even know what home is anymore. Maybe a little bit of everything?

---

The other day I was visiting a friend who invited me over and greeted me with the words: Make yourself at home. Do whatever you have to do to feel relaxed and comfortable.

So what is it that makes me feel relaxed and comfortable at home away from home? It’s the little things. The ocean definitely. My morning routine of watching the sunrise before catching the bus to work. Avocado on toast. The sunshine streaming into my apartment. Friends that check in on you. Colleagues that swear with me (or at me). Teaching the way I want to teach. Using my mother tongue to do so. Wearing nothing but shorts and a t-shirt for most of the year. The whirring of ceiling fans. The morning call of the kookaburra family (such a competitive bunch). A swim in the ocean. Not so much the rockpool (too busy). Extra shots in my coffee. The way the light is different down here, softer and gentler. Brighter and stronger at the same time. Gum trees. Steak night and schnitty night and pretty much any night with friends at the local pub.

It’s the little moments that sparkle, that make this place feel a bit like home. Sure, the flashy tourist attractions are nice—I am not going to lie. But it’s the everyday life I crave. The little gems. The sea glass you have to watch out for when walking on the beach.

---

Home is where the heart is. As corny as that sounds, it’s probably true. As much as I love living in Australia, it’s the people that make it feel like home. And missing my people back home. Another question I get asked often these days is whether I am going to stay, and I find that even harder to answer. Would I like to? Absolutely yes! This is my happy place. Will I stay? I don’t know. Home is familiar things. Home is a feeling. But home is also your people. Your kids. Your family. Your friends you have known for years. And I miss them. Some days more than others. They are what makes me shine.

Maybe I’m a bit like sea glass—broken and discarded, then transformed by the tumbling, churning powers of the ocean. Weathered, smooth, edges worn off. Beautiful to the person who picks it up… ok now it’s getting really cheesy. But that’s what being here feels like a bit. Beautiful and good and right—it just needs a bit of sparkle again.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! And Cheers!

So come on, come on, I’m ready now
Go get your things out, honey, let’s get ready to roll
Oh, I can feel a wave coming over me
I’ve been waiting for this day too long just to let it all go

Boy & Bear. Southern Sun.

Never had I seen blue contain this many colours.

Beneath me, blues, greens, browns, and oranges formed the foundation, with spots of bright colour here and there—the vibrant green of fleshy lettuce coral, the acid yellow of a fish swimming by, the orange and pinks spotted over brown boulders randomly. The deep purple of the giant clams opening up beneath me—plump lips speaking to me without making a sound. Electric blue fish with yellow and black stripes, silver waves of schools of fish swimming by. The colours of a painter’s palette generously splashed beneath me, on rocks and boulders and animals alike.

The shapes of the coral were amazing—branches and plates, mushrooms and pumpkin-like domes that reminded me of Kusama’s dot art floating in front of my eyes. A city of miniature castles and labyrinths, of claws and tentacles, soft coral hairs swaying in the water’s breeze. The scene beneath me was like a Where’s Waldo book page—my body slowing, my eyes scanning patiently for every intricate detail, watching for every small movement that I might miss. Like miniature flashlights, the rays of white sunlight filtered and danced through the turquoise-tinted water, revealing the deep dark blue spaces, shadows of small places hiding from me.

Slowly, I allowed myself to be absorbed not only by the landscape but by the sounds around me. I dared to swim further beneath the water’s surface, drowning out the above-water sounds—people laughing, calling out, the rubber dinghy circling about—to make space for the sound of my rhythmic breathing through my snorkel, the sound my body made moving along the surface of the shallow water. The faint splashing of swimming. Once in a while, a small giggle or “wow” would escape my mouth, not wanting to interrupt the peace around me.

Years ago, when my second son was in Grade 5, he wrote a speech about the Great Barrier Reef. Well, okay, maybe I helped him a bit. I remember writing about the beauty of the reef, the effects of pollution and coral bleaching, and how to protect it.

Never would I have thought, as we sat together writing that speech (ok, maybe it was actually me who wrote most of it – but he gave it, I swear!), that I would be swimming right here one day. Life has a funny way of surprising you like that.

Before this trip, I had never been on a sailboat. And after my experience with that crazy whale watching speed boat in Sydney back in 2019, I was more than a bit anxious about going out on the open ocean. The boat, the waves, the deep water, the things living in that water – it all made my stomach a bit queasy.

The first time I went to the Whitsundays was Hook Island, and it was everything I’d imagined and more. The water was calm, almost no waves and still. We anchored in a protected bay, and once I was in the water, mask and snorkel in place, I entered that magical underwater world I’d only helped my son write about all those years ago.

How did I enter the ocean from a boat? How did I overcome that fear? I didn’t just jump in. I went backwards. One foot finding the first rung, then my second foot searching for the next. I felt for the cushiony edge of the rubber dinghy and lowered myself down slowly. Spat in my goggles, adjusted the mask, and trusted that the simple rubber straw I placed in my mouth would provide me with enough air to breathe. And then I let go, gently gliding into the water. Into all the blue spaces around me.

This was exactly the kind of snorkeling I liked—the peaceful, meditative kind. The water was so clear, so calm, that floating face-down felt like slow-motion dreaming. And there it all was – everything I’d written about in that Grade 5 speech. Time stopped. There was only breathing, floating, watching, wondering.

And then there were the sea turtles. We saw them several times in the open sea—cruisey and cool, gliding through the water with an effortless grace that made everything else seem crazy by comparison. They didn’t give a damn about us overly excited tourists on the boat, frantically calling out “A turtle! A turtle!” They just carried on with their business, surfacing occasionally to breathe before diving back down to wherever sea turtles go when they’d had enough of us humans.

Three days later, we sailed out to Whitehaven Beach, and the weather had changed quite a bit. The winds were strong—really strong. White-capped waves in every direction, and our sailboat leaned dramatically to one side, then the other, cutting through the waves at great speed. And I loved it. The power of it, the wildness, the way the boat danced with the wind and water. Maybe I had taken one too many of those seasickness pills or maybe it was the glass of bubbly they offered us aboard (or maybe both) but I loved sailing along the islands.

Whitehaven Beach itself was gorgeous, as beautiful as everyone said it would be. It actually made me speechless for a moment when we first saw it from the lookout point. What the ….! Never had I seen something so beautiful. That famous silica sand, those impossible blues, the crystal clear water. Paradise-like!

But when it came time to snorkel, the conditions were completely different from Hook Island’s tranquil waters. The ocean was rough, churning, and challenging. You could hardly see anything through the stirred-up sand and surge. The current pulled and pushed, the waves tossed you about, and staying in one place long enough to observe anything required real effort and determination.

And I loved that too.

Because swimming in those rough waters, holding my own against the current, not panicking when a wave pushed me off course—that was its own kind of win. It was exciting, exhilarating, and wild. I was so proud of myself. I had come a long way from being scared of the ocean.

I’m not a sea turtle—not cool and careless like them. I know that. But maybe I am a sea lion. Curious and fun-loving, intelligent and playful. Minus the thick hair and big chest and belly though.

Today, I went to the local markets, soaking up the early morning moments of island life. Among the stalls of handmade jewelry and locally roasted coffee, I found myself suddenly standing across from a tarot card reader. Half an hour for $75 bucks – why not. After all, I was on holidays.

The cards told me what I probably already knew but needed to hear: Relax more. Breathe more. Sit at the beach and stop overthinking.

Fair enough, universe. Message received.

So on my last morning, I plan to wake early (as if I ever not wake up early) and walk down to the water’s edge. The marina will be quiet, just the gentle clinking of rigging against masts, the soft splashing of water against hulls. The sun will be just beginning to paint the sky in shades of pink and orange, and the blue water will reflect it all back like a mirror.

I’ll think about all the blues I’ve seen over the past few days. The deep navy of open water, the turquoise of shallow reefs, the pale aqua of sand-filtered shallows, the silvery blue-grey of early morning. Each one different, each one beautiful, each one part of the same blue ocean.

I’ll think about the sea turtles, cool and graceful. About the wild winds and the calm waters. About my son’s Grade 5 speech and how far I’ve come from simply reading about the reef to actually swimming in it.

And I’ll think about the tarot reader’s advice. Relax more. Breathe more. Sit at the beach. Stop the overthinking.

And maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll spot another sea turtle. Gliding along, not giving a damn about anything or anyone. Or even a sea lion or two. You never know.

Cheers.

Item 43 on my never-ending Australia bucket list: Complete. ✓

The final stretch down Macquarie Road towards the finish line in front of the Sydney Opera House. On both sides of the street, the crowd is cheering. In my head, Chariots of Fire is playing. My feet are so fast, they barely touch the ground. I am flying down the street, throwing my body towards the finish line. In front of my eyes: the iconic Opera House, the harbour, and in the distance, the familiar arch of Sydney Harbour Bridge. I put everything I’ve got into those last 1.2 kilometres. I run, I breathe, I am going to make it. Past the masses, I enter the final stretch. The crowd is cheering, chanting my name: “GISELA! GISELA!” The announcer states my name and home country—Canada! I finished! I did it! I ran the Sydney Marathon!

Running the full Sydney Marathon had been on my bucket list even before I arrived in this beautiful country in 2019. The years prior had been my golden running years (two to be exact—two golden running years), and I was convinced I would and could run another marathon on this continent.

Except I couldn’t. And I didn’t.

If you know me at all, you’ll know that I love to sign up for races and then chicken out shortly before they happen. I would always have the best excuses—something wrong with my feet, my hips, my training, my life… you name it! Ask my team teacher and running partner. She has heard it all before.

But running one more marathon in my life was my goal, and running one in Australia was firmly planted on my list of things I wanted to do.

There I was, one early Sunday morning at the end of August, in a park somewhere in North Sydney, trying to make my way to the start line. Me and 34,999 other hopeful runners.

I had plenty of excuses why I shouldn’t and couldn’t run this race either. I hadn’t been well the first half of the year, I hadn’t trained properly, we’d had all this rain in May and July, my feet hurt (still), I was getting old.

Except you couldn’t cop out of this one. The Sydney Marathon didn’t allow for selling your bib or giving it to someone else. The security around picking up your race kit was tighter than my hamstrings. Plus, getting into this run was decided by entering a lottery—and I had won. It didn’t feel right not to take advantage of this surely-once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Ready or not. Or as my friend said: “Give it a shot. What could possibly go wrong?”

Little did we know of all the things that could go wrong.

The Good (First 21km): Things went really well for the first half of the run. Sydney Harbour Bridge, along Darling Harbour, through the rich and beautiful Balmain—gentrified and posh. Back towards the harbour, a quick snapshot of the Harbour Bridge, the Opera House in sight. So close, yet so far. Another 30k to go.

I was having fun, I was loving it! A beautiful crisp winter day in the city—what was not to like? Through the city down George Street, Hyde Park, and along St Mary’s Cathedral. Running along Oxford Street, the fastest runners were already on their home stretch coming towards us. Oh, how I wanted to be them. But no, I still had over 25km to go.

I was in a good mood. My feet were fine. I had a smile on my face and was high-fiving everyone along the street, whether they wanted it or not. This was great.

Until it wasn’t.

The Bad (Enter: Anzac Parade): An endless wide avenue with nothing but asphalt, sun, and pain for over 10km! Five kilometres out and the same five back. My feet started hurting, and I decided it was time to switch to speed walking. Still smiling, just not as brightly anymore. Forget the high-fives. Why was I doing this again? What lottery? What bucket list?

The Ugly (Centennial Park): If Anzac Parade wasn’t bad enough, at kilometre 30 we entered Centennial Park and wouldn’t leave it again for another 4km. A lazy stroll on a Sunday afternoon—with blistered feet and sore calves. Ten more kilometres never felt so long.

I stopped at every water station and drank every energy drink and every water there was. I read every stupid motivating sign along the way. I hated them all. Some were actually quite funny: “Toenails are overrated anyway!” or “Keep chafing your dreams!” Except I was not in the mood anymore. I was done!

Finally, back at Hyde Park. St Mary’s Cathedral. The Art Gallery. Mrs Macquarie’s Chair. By now I had given up running and was walking only, saving that last little bit of energy I had for my glorious final stretch down Macquarie Street.

And glorious it was! I did it. I had finished my first and last (I swear!) marathon in beautiful Sydney! Crossed the finish line, collected my medal, took the obligatory selfie with the Opera House in the background, and hobbled through the Botanical Garden to make my way home.

Not impressed with my finishing time, but incredibly proud of finishing what I had been wanting to do ever since I had arrived in Australia.

A few days after the race, each marathon finisher received a finishing video. With the theme of Chariots of Fire still playing in my head, I opened the link and loved it initially. The Sydney Harbour Bridge, tens of thousands of runners crossing it in the rising sun…

Then came my finish line moment. There I was, number 33907, only metres away from the finish. But what had felt like a gazelle flying over the line looked, in fact, like someone hobbling in slow motion towards the goal. The music in my head stopped abruptly, and the bruised toenail on my right foot started pulsating immediately. This was painful to watch—literally!

I clicked delete and erased the video forever. Some memories are best kept in your heart. And your bruised toenails.

A few days after the race, a friend asked me what was next on my bucket list. I hadn’t even thought about it, still in a daze about what I had accomplished.

“Swim in the ocean,” I said! “Swim in the ocean with whale sharks. Item 43 on my never-ending Australia bucket list.”

Just don’t let me sign up for any more marathons, please!

My 42.2 Australia Bucket List

1. ✓ Cuddled a koala (and pretended I didn’t notice its smell)
2. ✓ Took the Ghan train across the continent (and loved every minute of it)
3. ✓ Swam in the ocean despite knowing about sharks (because YOLO, apparently)
4. ✓ Ordered a long black with a dash of milk (and felt like a proper local)
5. ✓ Joined the local trivia club (where my expertise is all things exotic)
6. ✓ Ate crocodile and kangaroo (tasted like chicken, obviously)
7. ✓ Watched sunrise over the ocean more times than you could count (and will never tire of it)
8. ✓ Encountered a snake in the wild (the school playground)
9. ✓ Found a huntsman spider in the house (and saved a friend’s life)
10. ✓ Saw a cassowary up close (or did it see me?)
11. ✓ Traveled to every Australian state (this country is ridiculously huge)
12. ✓ Rode a camel (surprisingly comfortable, surprisingly smelly)
13. ✓ Had a drink at the bowlo
14. ✓ Visited the most western point in Tasmania (and played an imaginary flute)
15. ✓ Had a proper barbie with the locals (Happy Chrissie!)
16. ✓ Bought a bottle at the bottle-o
17. ✓ Witnessed the 2019 bushfires and Covid (just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse)
18. ✓ Lived through major floods (and so did my classroom)
19. ✓ Endured weeks of endless rain (when the land of sunshine forgot its name)
20. ✓ Experienced scorching heat and freezing cold (you try living in a house without heating)
21. ✓ Ran from the city to Bondi twice (because once wasn’t enough punishment)
22. ✓ Walked 38k at night to see sunrise in the south of the city (questionable life choices, excellent views)
23. ✓ Found a local cafe that knows my name and order at 5:30am (true love exists)
24. ✓ Been called “mate” more times than I could remember (I try to feel loved)
25. ✓ Enjoy steak on Monday steak night (medium-rare with a large glass of expensive Shiraz)
26. ✓ Ordered a schnitty on Tuesday (see above, but with breadcrumbs)
27. ✓ Navigated Australian taxes and their confusing June year-end (July 1st was the real New Year)
28. ✓ Drove on the “wrong” side of the road (not by choice)
29. ✓ Did a trail run in Bouddi National Park (hardest thing I have ever done)
30. ✓ Went to the Australian Open (and watched some tennis too)
31. ✓ Hiked the Three Capes in Tasmania (where I ran out of food on day two)
32. ✓ Snorkeled the reef in Queensland (and embraced my fear of the ocean)
33. ✓ Tasted wine in the Hunter Valley (and snored on the bus on our way home)
34. ✓ Felt snow in the Blue Mountains (Australia’s adorable attempt at winter)
35. ✓ Went on a whale tour and almost died (seasickness is real)
36. ✓ Swam in a rock pool (me and a few other sea creatures)
37. ✓ Hiked to a waterfall (and tore my knee)
38. ✓ Walked on squeaky beaches (sand with sound effects)
39. ✓ Tasted Vegemite and didn’t like it (looks like Nutella but surely isn’t)
40. ✓ Learned what a bacon and egg roll was (bacon-and-egg-on-a-roll, with rocket)
41. ✓ Joined a book club and found a writing partner (because I need intellectual stimulation)
42. Finished the Sydney Marathon (the ultimate Australian flex)

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!

When the wheels come off, I’ll be your spare
When the party’s over, I’ll be stacking the chairs
When the world turns on you, I will be there
I will be there

The Middle Kids. Stacking Chairs

A new school year. A new class. The year 1 students are learning all about the letter A: der Apfel, die Ameise, die Ampel. Together with the Year 2s we are reading the picture book “Why I love Australia”. Another word with A. We are drawing big fat boab trees in Art and I ask the children to draw their families in their tree, linking in a little part of our “All About Me” activities for the month with the discussion on how we are all different.

At the same time, two events take place outside our classroom walls – totally unrelated yet not without some strange kind of connection to what is going on inside our classrooms. Number one, my own little boab tree offshoot in shape of my oldest son is visiting Australia. Is visiting me and I could not be happier. Together we have planned a weekend away as part of his two-week stay with his partner. Which brings me to number two: said planned weekend away suddenly got derailed by another word with A: Alfred the tropical cyclone.

Months ago, when my son announced their plans to visit me in Downunder, my adventure-planning mode kicked in immediately – any excuse to plan a trip, no matter how big or small. He wanted to show his girlfriend the Great Barrier Reef, which we had visited together in 2022, and I was all game. Except that the Great Barrier Reef wasn’t. At least not at this time of year. November to April, so I learnt in my extensive research, was cyclone season. Not extensive enough to find out what a cyclone really was but it sounded serious and I knew that this was not the right time to return to beautiful Far North Queensland with its largest city Cairns (not so beautiful) and white endless beaches, lush green rainforests, gushing waterfalls and, of course, the crystal blue ocean with its coral reefs.

So I played it safe and opted in my bookings for not-so-bad-either Noosa, on the Southern Queensland Sunshine Coast. Cyclone safe and very pretty as well with lots of beaches, lakes, and lush hinterland. Splurged a little and even booked a day of 4WD driving along Rainbow Beach. Weather forecast: Five days of endless sunshine.

Until it started to rain. In Noosa. And not only that – the weather app suddenly showed five extreme weather alerts: flooding, strong winds, heavy rain, large surf, and the dreaded word CYCLONE! This was not supposed to happen. We were supposed to fly out in two days and, according to the satellite picture, straight into the eye of this tropical storm. Memories of the movie The Day After Tomorrow came to mind. But I was no Denis Quaid and my son not Jake Gyllenhaal. Still in denial, I kept checking the weather app every five minutes, hoping that this was simply a glitch, a mistake, an app gone wrong. Until our Air Bnb host in Noosa called to cancel. Flights were cancelled. Supermarkets emptied. Beaches closed. They were preparing for the worst. And I had prepared for nothing. At least not for an erratic cyclone hitting land exactly when and where we were supposed to be.

Cyclone Alfred, or Alfie as the Australians with their love for nicknames call him, had been travelling up and down the east coast of Australia for the past two weeks. While I was greeting my son at the Sydney airport, excited about our upcoming trip to Noosa together, Alfred was gathering speed. While we were learning about A’s and the Australian boab tree, it was turning into a Category 4 Cyclone offshore, creating intense winds and whipping the beaches of South Queensland with erosion-causing waves. While we were slurping oysters in Manly, dancing to the iconic Sydney Band “Middle Kids” in Taronga Zoo, hiking in the Blue Mountains, Alfred moved the wrong way and was getting ready to make landfall much further south than normal. The last cyclone that far south had been 50 years ago. Why now? Why the? Why exactly where we were supposed to be in two days’ time? Oh Alfie!

But I wasn’t going to let a tropical storm – and especially not one with a ridiculous name like Alfie – ruin our plans. If Noosa was the new cyclone Mecca, then Cairns all of a sudden wasn’t and we would simply go there. Fly over the whole mess and go where we had wanted to go all along. With some luck and determination I was able to rebook us all to spend a few days in Palm Cove where we had been 2 and a half years ago. And we even got a special deal – after all, it was “cyclone season” at the Great Barrier Reef!

As for Cyclone Alfred and the Sunshine coast – eventually it did hit land as far south as Brisbane. Though it had weakened to below tropical cyclone strength, it caused great damage through destructive winds and heavy rains, causing flooding, power outages and washed away beaches. Peregian Beach south of Noosa lost up to 30 metres of width. Erosion cliffs (called scarps) of up to 3m high appeared. Just in a week, millions of sand on the beaches seemingly disappeared. The beaches of the Sunshine Coast were scarred by dramatic sand cliffs.

Beaches in Australia constantly change and are very resilient. I noticed that at my local beach in Newport. One day you were able to walk down a few steps to get to your morning swim in the ocean, the next you had to jump down a two meter scarp to get to the beach.

They adapt by changing their shape. When there is a lot of energy in the waves and currents, the beach will become flatter and narrower (which is exactly what happened here in Newport). The sand has been pulled off the beaches and washed off offshore to form sandbanks, which in return naturally protect the remaining beach, as they break the waves before hiting the shore.

Eventually, much of the sand will naturally be transported back ashore, making it steeper and wider again. This can take months, or years, depending on the waves. Some sand never returns. In this case, I am pretty sure they will speed up the process by simply dumping extra sand on their beaches. After all, the show for the tourists must go on.

As cyclones, go, Alfie was a whimp. But it gave us a chance to return to a magical part of Australia that I would return to any time. Just not with Alfie!

Well I came home
Like a stone
And I fell heavy into your arms
These days of dust
Which we’ve known
Will blow away with this new sun

But I’ll kneel down
Wait for now
And I’ll kneel down
Know my ground

And I will wait, I will wait for you
And I will wait, I will wait for you

I will wait. Mumford & Sons

A warm, sunny Monday morning. Blue skies, bright sunshine, a slight wind blowing from the south-east. When I arrive, a little late as I come directly from school, I see a small gathering on the beach. Men and women, old and young, in flowery dresses and bikinis. Children playing in the sand. All of them staring out onto the ocean, where not too far from the shore, a circle of surf boards and rubber boats is forming. Some of the onlookers are holding colourful roses in their hands – bright pink, and yellow and red. All I can hear is the surf rolling ashore, the seagulls circling above our heads, muted conversations amongst the onlookers.

When the circle on the water is complete, the paddlers in the distance take each other by the hand and words are being said, though they do not reach us on the shore. Prayers, memories, good wishes… I can only imagine. A floating memorial. We catch a glimpse of ashes being scattered into the water, followed by cheering and lots of water splashing. Ashore, friends, and family step closer to the water, careful not to get their shoes wet, and throw their single roses into the waves. Sand speckled with petals like sprinkles on fairy bread. It’s her party and I cry if I want to.

Sandra. I met Sandra six years ago, when I first arrived in Australia. Fresh off the boat (or plane, I should say), my plan was to live close to the school in Terrey Hills. Never having been much of a beach person, I declared with conviction that I did not need to be near the ocean and that living in this suburb surrounded by National Park was just fine with me.

Until I realized that things pretty much shut down at 5pm in this place and that living right next to the school wasn’t the greatest plan. The fact that I was living in an Airbnb with a creepy host and a child-sized bed, only added to the urgency that I needed a different place to stay. Pronto!

And in came Sandra! A friend of a colleague, whom I had just met, introduced me to her and the idea of living by the ocean in a little blue house by the sea. The rest is history.

I remember sitting at the wooden table in Sandra’s homey kitchen, having a friendly conversation with who was to be not only my first Australian landlady, but also a friend and strong support in anything I did. Sandra loved the idea of my wanting to write about my experiences in Down Under and though, looking back, she may have been a little disappointed in my writing skills, she believed in me and offered me a place to stay that became a huge part of my Australian experience.

During my first Australia tour, Sandra showed me coastal walks and coffee talks, explained local fauna and cultures to me. Invited me to her infamous family Christmas gathering, joined my one-off bookclub meeting, and went to the U2 concert with me in tow. Sandra kept the right distance a landlady should keep, and gave the support a friend would give. “If sunshine were a person, Sandra would be her name.”

Things had changed when I returned to Newport Beach two years later in 2022. The sun was still shining, the beach was still beautiful. The ocean kept on rolling. I now lived in a different little house, white this time, closer to the beach and a little further away from Sandra. At times our paths would cross, at the cafe Saturday mornings or at the shops in the frozen aisle. We were friendly but not close friends. I had heard that Sandra’s cancer had returned and that she was fighting hard to beat this despicable disease. And Sandra was a fighter!

Three years after our first walk to Bilgolah Beach, Sandra and I met to make our way to the neighbouring beach once again. The steps a little harder to climb, the trails a little more difficult to follow, yet we made it to the little cafe shack to sit and have a talk. Sandra was one of those people that, even in the darkest of her times and the deepest of her moments, would ask how you were doing. Curious and inquisitive and open-minded until the end.

And I was nervous to share my newest status with her. Of having left my family in Canada to continue working abroad. To finish living my dream. Sandra and her family were perfect, her marriage seemed perfect as well, and if I’m being honest, I was ashamed to admit that I felt like I had failed. She listened with patience and kindness and reminded me that I was one of the bravest person she had ever met. At that moment, I wish I had told her the same.

On my little Ikea kitchen table in my little white granny flat, a card in a golden envelope is sitting in the corner of the table, propped up against a wilted Christmas poinsettia plant. The envelope bears Sandra’s name and was written shortly after Christmas. In it, I wanted to tell Sandra about all those uneventful events I shared with her in those few years that I had known her. Irrelevant compared to the memories others probably had with her who had known her for a much longer time.

I wanted to tell her how grateful I was that she welcomed me into her home and with it to Australia; showed me a small part of Australian life. I wanted to let her know how much I appreciated her belief in my dream to write, her support through difficult times like COVID and having to leave Australia and returning years later to finish what I had started, though not sure that was a good idea to go back to where I had been so happy in 2019. I wanted to thank her for not judging me, for believing in me, for calling my crazy ideas courageous. For accepting me just the way I was. For leaving me enamoured with Australia (Sandra loved big words!).

My letter never made it. Sandra died from cancer before I had a chance to give it to her. Or maybe I was just scared to give it to her and see her one last time.

At today’s celebration of life, I learned a lot about the person Sandra that I did not know before. And listening to all the friends and family remembering her in speech, poems, songs, and pictures, I learned that Cancer is a bitch! That life is beautiful! And that love is not gone – it just changes direction.

A paddle out – that is how ocean people say goodbye to their own. This is how surfers say farewell – not in funeral homes, but out here on the water, where life and death meet in the waves. Even in grief, there can be beauty.

The circle of paddlers starts breaking up. Someone points at the water. Two dolphins, swimming right beside the group. They stay for a while, keeping the paddlers company. Sandra would have liked that.

A warning sign
I missed the good part then I realised
I started looking and the bubble burst
I started looking for excuses

Come on in
I’ve got to tell you what a state I’m in
I’ve got to tell you in my loudest tones
That I started looking for a warning sign

When the truth is
I miss you
Yeah the truth is
That I miss you

Warning Signs. Coldplay

RIP. For years now I have been trying to learn how to recognize one – a rip current. Or Rip, as the Aussies simply call it. For years I’ve tried to understand it. Every Australian sees it. Every child learns it at Sunday morning Nippers. Even Peppa Pig knows what it is!

Ocean rip currents happen when waves crash onto the beach. As the water moves back out into the ocean, a strong current can occur. It looks like breaking waves with a gap in the middle. That calmer, darker area in the middle is the rip current. Easy right?

I just don’t see it. Until I felt it one day, but by then it was almost too late. Getting carried out into the deep dark ocean (okay, I wasn’t really more than a few meters away from the beach, but it was scary!) and finding it impossible to swim back to shore. Paddling, paddling, paddling but getting nowhere. The only thing you can do: float and stay calm. I’m not very good with either one of those.

I’m much better at seeing signs from the safety of my green wooden bench at the beach: A clear sunrise (my favourite) – fair weather to follow. A red sky in the morning – a storm is on its way. Low-hanging clouds bring rain, the high wispy ones show good weather. My favourite are the pink ones that look like cotton candy floating in the sky.

The winds are important at the ocean and have a lot to say. The nor’easterlies blow all summer, while the southerly, their troubled counterpart, brings storms and bad weather. A westerly wind in the winter makes the waves great. If it wasn’t for those rips!

And then there is the wildlife! The animals in the water that one needs to look out for: bluebottles and blue-ringed octopuses, stingers and sharks. I probably wouldn’t recognize those either until it was too late. For goodness sake – I thought the small blue creatures washed up at the beach were laundry pods, and that snake with the red belly at school would make a good selfie shot! It’s not like there aren’t any obvious signs – you just have to know how to read them.

Good thing the Australians are very good at signs. Warning signs. Put up anywhere and everywhere: that sign warning me about a rip current, and the one about the bluebottles. A sign for snakes, one for crocodiles, and one for children at play (a dangerous species on its own). Australia is huge on warning signs. And rightly so. Australia is home to some of the most dangerous animals and surroundings in the world. As such, they don’t mess around when it comes to trying to keep people safe.

These days, from my green wooden bench at the beach, double-shot cappuccino in hand, I watch the waves and think about how the world seems to be caught in its own kind of rip. The irony isn’t lost on me – I see bright yellow signs warning of imminent ocean dangers, while across the globe, countries are being pulled by currents no one saw coming.

The warning signs in the news from distant shores remind me of those calm patches of water hiding rip currents – they look harmless until you’re caught in their pull. Just as I mistook those dangerous bluebottles for laundry pods, I can misread or dismiss the early warning signs of troubling changes. It’s often not until we’re caught in the pull that we realize the strength of these undercurrents.

Being in Australia, tens of thousands of miles away from Canada or Europe, it is sometimes difficult to engage with the world and what is going on. At times it is even tempting to give in to this state of paradise bliss, the feeling of not really being a part of the problems in the world. Ignorant, I know, but true. At least for me. I read the paper, I watch the news, I talk to friends and family back home to stay informed. I register to vote – even from afar – because I want to be aware of what is going on around me.

But do I see the signs? Do I notice the black clouds building at the horizon, or do I brush them aside to take yet another picture of a stunning sunrise? Do I notice the rip at the shore or do I wade into the ocean nonetheless, distracted by the beautiful things around me?

From my bench, watching the sunrise with my coffee in hand (in a keep-cup of course!), I can’t help but wonder – by the time we feel the pull, will it be too late to swim back to shore?

I’m scared of the things I think of
When night comes along
Something gets hold of me
Something I can’t see

This is the Night. THE THE

Shortly before kilometre 30, there they were. In the dark oily waters beneath us, circular shimmering lights like submerged night lights were glowing mysteriously. Most of them gathered together in one spot as if to keep each other company, with one or two astray on the rocky shores of the tiny bay on the eastern side of Sydney Harbour. Water lights to scare off the sharks? Glowing algae? Squid? Sea fireflies? We were not sure and still, one day after this surreal sight, are not sure what we saw. If we did not have the blurry nighttime pictures on our phones to prove it, we might even think it was only an illusion. In the end, it didn’t and doesn’t matter, as these tiny luminescent specks in the water, whatever they were, added to the magic of the night. This truly magical night.

The Sydney Dusk to Dawn Walk – 37km from North Sydney to famous Bondi Beach in the south. A fundraiser for children in need, a fun way to spend time with my friends, a wonderful way to see this magical city by night.

I have run a few races in Sydney, always making sure that I stop along the way to take photos of the local sights and take in the beauty of this city by the ocean. Walking, and at night, would mean a new and fascinating way of exploring the city. I signed up, foolishly ignoring the fact that to walk that kind of distance, it would take anybody, including me, at least seven hours. Which, considering the fact that this night walk, as the name promised, would start at dusk and would take us until the next morning to reach iconic Bondi Beach.

Walking, schmalking, we showed up in North Sydney on this warm summer night, a light northeasterly blowing, a promise of summer in the air. A little over a thousand people did the same, a diverse crowd – young and old, fit and not so fit, groups and couples and singles – gathered in a park north of the city. All of us easily recognizable by the light t-shirt we had received and a headlamp around our heads. Both of which would prove invaluable later that night.

8pm – North Sydney to Rushcutters Bay (12 km)

A thousand people in light blue t-shirts walking through the city lights, like a school of fish weaving in and out of traffic, avoiding lampposts and parked cars, grudgingly stopping only for red traffic lights, trying to make their way out of the large group of fellow walkers, to swim themselves free, to get ahead. That early stage of any walk or race, when you think every minute counts. Following the little blue arrows attached to poles and fences, the shoal made its way to Lavender Bay: the skyline illuminated in the distance, Sydney Harbour Bridge in front of our eyes. Beautiful as always. Sydney Opera House to the left. Sydney’s most iconic landmarks lighting up the night.

Luna Park, the heritage-listed amusement park, eerily quiet and dark in the night, the smiling clown face entrance of Mr Moon frozen for the night. Following the bay underneath the Harbour Bridge, before heading up to cross and dropping down through The Rocks and following the waterfront around Circular Quay with a stunning view of the Opera House. Walking alongside the outside of the Botanical Gardens, through the Domain, the majestic building of the Art Gallery of New South Wales towards our first checkpoint at Rushcutters Bay Park.

The mood was excited and full of life: portable speakers playing dance music, participants engaged in conversation and fun, each one of them still mostly keeping to themselves and their group peers. Still trying to outwalk the others. This too should change very soon.

10pm – Rushcutters Bay to Rose Bay (8km)

Leaving most city hustle behind us, we were now navigating through leafy suburban streets and beautiful baysides shimmering in the night. Walking through beautiful and well-maintained neighbourhoods, narrow heritage-listed terrace houses slowly giving way to impressive sandstone mansions. The irony, that we were walking through some of the fanciest and richest parts of this city to raise funds for impoverished children in the world did not escape us. For the first time on our walk, three hours into the experience, we came upon the first “loop”. An added segment to our long walk that added nothing to it but a few km and an increasing throbbing pain in all parts of our bodies; our feet, our legs, our hips, and our thighs. Walking this distance was getting increasingly harder and more challenging, and we were grateful that at least we did not have to walk in the heat of the blistering sun. We made it past halfway point – stopping only for a quick selfie and a toilet break. Our legs were becoming increasingly heavy. Midnight. We should have been in bed. Instead we had to walk almost another 20k. In the distance a lone group of walkers was singing a familiar tune by the Backstreet Boys:

“You are my fire, The one desire, But we are two worlds apart, Can’t reach to your heart, Tell me why, Ain’t nothin’ but a heartache.” Slowly we were bonding as fellow walkers over the pain this event caused us.

12am – Rose Bay to Watsons Bay (11.5km)

After 20km and 4 hours of walking in the middle of the night, things started to become a bit blurry. Following the coastline, navigating foreshore tracks and cliff walks, passing historic sights in Vaucluse and Watsons Bay, we now were increasingly relying on our headlamps and the others walking with us. Stumbling along unsealed trail paths in the dark, following the walker in front of us, trying hard not to miss the little blue arrows that were showing us the way.

Only to get lost still not once, not twice, but three times in the middle of the bush. It was in these moments of getting lost that the spirit of the event changed from individuals and separate teams to a community event of sticking together, helping each other, looking out for each other. By now the number of walkers had shrunk dramatically and of the 1000 original walkers, all that was left was what felt like a handful of loopy walkers toughing it out together.

The nightlit skyline of the city in the distance, we were following leafy narrow trails with steps and stairs, past beautiful small secluded beaches and coves, another unnecessary loop, to arrive at Parsley Bay Suspension Bridge. Crossing over the charming, century-old wooden bridge, we gazed down into the dark waters to spot the numerous phosphorescent dots beneath us. By now almost delirious from exhaustion and pain and tiredness, all we could do was stare at them in awe, taking in this magical moment of silent mystery. Whatever this was, it was beautiful. So beautiful that it left us speechless – that, or we were simply too tired to speak.

2am – Watsons Bay to North Bondi (6km)

The final stretch. We had never planned to actually walk the whole thing, but here we were – at the point of no return. Following ravishing coastal views highlighted by the orange light of the crescent moon over the still of the ocean, we were on the last stretch on our way to the finish line. By now, the pain in our feet and legs and bodies was turning into catastrophic injuries and permanent damage in our heads. At times we were not even sure we would make it – six kilometers never felt that long. The iconic Bondi Icebergs Pool in sight, we caught one last glimpse of Sydney harbour behind us, and made our way down to North Bondi. One last loop, which by now we simply ignored, stumbling on, cursing on, limping on, wondering if we would ever make it.

And we did. 7 hours and 45 minutes after we had left North Sydney on what seemed ages ago, we stumbled along Bondi Parade and crawled through the finish line of what was to be the longest walk and hardest thing any of us had done to this point. But we had done it. In the slowly vanishing dark of the night, it wasn’t only our small head torches that were the light. It was us. Each one of the 250 participants who made it in the end, being a tiny little light in a world that at times seems more and more dark.

As for the glowing lights in the waters beneath Parsley Bay Bridge, no real explanation for this phenomenon could be found. Maybe phosphorescent algae, giving off light caused by turbulence in the water. Maybe a group of glowing Firefly Squid passing through. Lights submerged by mankind to distract sharks. Or, my favourite, tiny ostracods – or sea fireflies. Tiny crustaceans in the water, sending off their shiny sparkle to find their soulmates. Or maybe simply our minds, exhausted and tired, imagining magical things. No matter what it was, in those late hours of our night walked through, these small lights lit up the darkness around us. And for me, that is all the explanation I need.

There are a few things as startling as encountering an unearthly glow in the wild. Glow-worms. Ghost mushrooms. Fireflies. Flashlight fish. Lantern sharks. Vampire squid. Our forest floors and ceilings, our ocean depths and fringes are full of luminous beings, creatures lit from the inside. And they have, for many centuries, enchanted us, like glowing missionaries of wonder, emissaries of awe. Is there anything more beautiful than living light?

Julia Baird. Phosphorescence. On Awe, Wonder and Things That Sustain You When the World Goes Dark

Wake up, Maggie, I think I got somethin’ to say to you
It’s late September and I really should be back at school
I know I keep you amused, but I feel I’m being used
Oh, Maggie, I couldn’t have tried any more

You led me away from home
Just to save you from being alone
You stole my heart and that’s what really hurts

Maggie May. Rod Stewart

8222: The number of islands in Australia. Eight thousand two hundred and twenty-two! Australia – a pretty large island itself – has a large number of islands in the Pacific, Indian, and Southern Oceans, and the Coral and Timor Seas. To visit them all would take over a lifetime. No chance – I’m too old for that! Started too late. But I guess I can at least try to see a few.

Tasmania, of course – Australia’s largest island. Done. Been there, done that. Fell in love with Tassie! But that’s about it! I have 8221 islands to go and don’t know where to start!

Maybe Bruny Island, the curious little island at the edge of the world, off the coast of Tasmania? Known for its dramatic landscapes and gourmet kitchens? Or Rottnest Island, the happy little island on the West Coast, where cute little quokkas smile at you? Kangaroo Island in the south, rugged and wild. Tiwi Islands in the North, artfully remote.

The beautiful islands along the east coast, with their white sandy beaches and turquoise waters. K’gari (Fraser) Island, the family escape; the Whitsundays in the Great Barrier Reef, a beachcomber’s paradise; or North Stradbroke Island, “Straddie” as the locals call it – the little hidden paradise off the coast of Brisbane. Not to mention Lord Howe Island, Australia’s most exclusive luxury island, World Heritage-listed for its natural beauty. Would love to visit but can’t afford it.

First world problems, I know. Tassie, Rotto, Bruny, KI, Straddie… I love them all. But for this year’s spring break I had to decide on one, and so I settled on Maggie – the most underrated island in the Great Barrier Reef. 1700km from Sydney – two hours by plane. 5km off the coast of Townsville in North Queensland. The most magical suburb I have ever seen. I felt the attraction instantly. Boom boom!

I’m not sure what I was expecting but I wasn’t expecting this. The strange name ruined it a bit for me. Magnetic Island? Really? Where did that come from? Places and islands in Australia are often named after whatever European invader “first” set his foot on them – usually ignoring the fact that most of these places had been inhabited for thousands of years by indigenous peoples before them, who had already given these islands their names.

And much more meaningful and fitting names dare I say? Rottnest Island is called Wadjemup, the place of spirits. Bruny Island – Lunawanna-alonnah, the land across the water. Kangaroo Island Karta Pintingga – Island of the dead. And North Stradbroke Minjerribah, place of many mosquitoes. Instead we are stuck with nicknames like Rotto, Tassie, and Straddie – familiar maybe, and friendly. Australians do like their diminutives and nicknames.

But Magnetic Island? I couldn’t help but think of a giant mine where they dig for magnets (ok I know that’s not a thing, but you know what I mean.) Or a video game my first graders would enjoy playing on their tablets! I keep having The Pointer Sisters “Neutron Dance” playing in my head. All things electric-magnetic. But not necessarily attractive. I could not have been more wrong. Magnetic Island was positively one of the most beautiful places I had been to. It pulled me right in. Boom boom!

Turned out, good-old James Cook was to blame for this styrange name. He sailed by the island that had been inhabited for over 9000 years by the Aboriginal Traditional Custodians of Yunbenun (Magnetic Island), the Wulgurukaba ‘canoe people’, in 1770 and thought his magnetic compass was acting up due to the large amount of huge granite boulders that constituted the island. Though intensive research could not prove this random theory, the name stuck: Magnetic Island was born. Well, not really.

In fact, the island had been formed 275 million years ago, when molten lava was pushed to the earth’s surface with volcanic force. Just like the formation of many other islands in Australia were caused by underwater volcanic eruptions: Lord Howe, the Whitsundays, Hawaii.

With the latter obviously not being Australian but exploring Magnetic Island definitely reminded us of being in Hawaii. The stunning palm-lined beaches, dense mangroves, the fringing coral reefs, huge granite boulders, hillsides covered with tropical lush greenery of hoop pines, eucalyptus, and ferns. The aquamarine ocean and the countless sandy beaches and hidden bays. But then – I have never been to Hawaii. But that’s what I imagine it to be like. A little piece of heaven. Paradise.

And what was nice about this place was that it seemed to be stuck in time. In a good way. A life-changing place that forced you to slow down and appreciate the little things. The public bus that connects the south shore with the north, where you still paid with coins. The pink plastic “topless” buggies that served as rental cars to explore the many bays and beaches on the island. The local attractions of toad races and concerts in the local RSL club. The backpackers and the aged hippies with their fading tattoos on wrinkly skin. A chilled-out vibe where you could spend a lot of koala-ty time.

Magnetic Island has about 2000 proud locals and 800 sleepy koalas living on it. The highest concentration of koalas in all of Australia. Brought to the island in the 1930s to protect the animal, it is now one of the few places in Australia where you could still see koalas in the wild. And so we did! After days of doing nothing, recovering from a very busy term 3 at school. Of sleeping, eating, napping, reading, eating, and back to sleeping, we gathered all our newfound energy and made our way to the rugged hilly interior of the island to look for these cute little bears – which they are not, of course!

Looking for wild koalas in Australia had been a bit like being a storm chaser in the Deep South of America so far. You hear about one having been sighted and off you go and try to find it. So my hopes were not very high, I have to admit. Bus 250 dropped us off at Station Junction, an old military site from the 1940s as part of the Pacific War, and now a popular walking trek and place to spot koalas.

And we did! There it was, a sleepy koala male, sleeping in the tree. Not at all fazed by our appearance, not even trying to hide. Just sleeping the day away. I’m not really surprised that there are not too many around anymore. They are not exactly trying hard to save themselves. But very cute and very special nonetheless! A truly magnetic moment that will stick with us!

We finished our much-needed time on this island of slowing down and appreciating the little things, with a sunset safari at West Point Beach, part of the Magnetic Island National Park. Seventy-five percent of the island is part of the National Park, whose name the Department of Environment, Science and Innovation (DESI) has proposed to change to Yunbenun.

The name – pronounced Yuhn-beh-nin – is the preferred label for the island by the Wulgurukaba or ‘canoe people’. Yunbenun National Park. A call for the entire island going back to its original name has received strong pushback. Some question why change things, why potentially confuse people, and why bother with the return to traditional names at all.

There is a trend in Australia to use at least dual names when referring to places. Ayers Rock was the most widely used name until 1993, when the rock was officially renamed Ayers Rock / Uluru – the first feature in the Northern Territory to be given dual names. In 2013, the Tasmanian government announced a dual naming policy and “kunanyi / Mount Wellington” was named as one of the inaugural dual-named geographic features. And in 2021, the Queensland Government started the process to rename Fraser Island to K’gari. It is now called K’gari (Fraser) Island.

Magnetic Island’s name will not change, as critics have been reassured. Inhabited for thousands of years by the traditional inhabitants, the Wulgurukaba or ‘canoe people’, who had seasonal camps on the island. They were able to maintain their traditional lifestyle until the 1890s, when European settlers set up their first resort in Picnic Bay. The Wulgurukaba remained on the island until the 1930s, until they were forcefully removed to work and live in missions on the mainland.

Magnetic Island is a hidden gem. A little paradise only a few kilometres off the shore of Queensland, Australia. It definitely has a strong pull. But it just ain’t Magnetic!

Cheers!