All posts by Elizabeth

No 48: Malabar – A winter solstice beach (25 June 2017)

In 2014 I heard a story on the radio about ceremonies people create for themselves. A caller described a women’s winter solstice ceremony she had been conducting for years. The Winter Solstice, marking the moment when more light begins to fill your days, is the beginning of a new cycle and a nadir. The caller’s ceremony involved letting go of the past year – which I then sorely needed to do.

I had then run my worst turn around the sun to date and was, finally, starting to recover. I’ve missed marking the solstice in 2015 (I was in the northern hemisphere) and 2016 (I was focussed on other things), but this year I’ve returned to the idea and set off on a glorious winter’s day to beach number 48, Malabar.

I like how the demographics on the bus shift as I travel from home to beach. From the city to the University of New South Wales we are a mixed crowd leaning East Asian, from UNSW to Kensington mostly East Asian, from Kensington to Maroubra moving towards working-class whites and Southern Europeans. Beyond Maroubra – mostly working-class whites with maybe a few Aboriginals as well.

Malabar has a strange not-in-Sydney vibe – it feels like it could be a down the South Coast someplace … a village between the ‘Gong and Kiama. A row of old-school 1950s – 1970s family homes face the rich blue inlet and the undeveloped green headland to the north.

This is an ocean beach but set at the back of Long Bay and the big waves just don’t reach the shore. When the water is clean enough to swim in (which it isn’t always) it’s a great spot for a lazy paddle.

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I’ve come with my pocket datebooks of the last year. On most days, I’ve recorded three short bullet-points – an event, my mood, the weather, a movie I saw or book I finished reading, that sort of thing.

The sea is a saturated indigo, the sky pale cerulean. The park behind the beach is filled with families, the barbeques in high demand. I sit on a bench facing the beach and, accompanied by the metronomic squeak of a child being pushed in a swing, review my year. One day’s snapshot after another. It takes nearly an hour.

Looking up from my task I notice two frolicking naked 3-year old children – a boy and a girl – and think “I love Australia”. Shame about our bodies is a learned thing. And until they learn it and stop wanting to run around naked, let kids be free – it’s lovely that these kids haven’t had embarrassment and fear imposed on them. People see people in public and think what they will think – it does no harm (predators who act do harm). That the parents of these kids are, themselves, unashamed of their naked children and not fearful that someone might be masturbating in the bushes or about to swoop in to snatch their kids, makes me happy.

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I retire to the Malabar Beach Café for the writing of the Lists – one of all the worst things that happened this past year: the disappointment of a thing not working out with a man, the long search for work, the unexplained silence of a friend, the outcome of the US election, boredom & uncertainty. And then a list of all the best things: that I maintained old and developed new friendships, became a baseball fan again and attended games, that I met my birth mother and her family, the excitement and pleasure when I thought the thing with the man might work out, getting involved in the Women’s March in Sydney, and finally landing a job.

All those things – the good and the bad – are done. They are equally behind me – I can let them all slip into the past today and begin afresh.

I walk to the northern end of the beach and prepare to burn the paper – first the bad, then the good. All the best rituals involve fire. But the paper won’t light – it just smoulders and chars. Rather than take this as a bad sign I move to an alternative. I tear them into little pieces and fling them into the sea. (Actually, I discreetly sprinkle them in an area from which I hope they will quickly be washed away from the beach.) Frankly, it’s not as satisfying as fire – I’ll have to prepare better next year.

Ceremony finished, I go for a walk on the Malabar Headland.  I am passed by two teenagers on bicycles. When they get to the sign for the National Park which says “No bicycles” the boy urges the girl to ignore it, “who’s going to be checking? Come on” he pleads. She refuses – nope, not going to do it, it’s not about being caught it’s about the rule. I like the strength of the girl’s refusal to do what the boy wants – I think that bodes well for her.

Not much further along a couple in their 50s or 60s, difficult to say as they have clearly lived hard, pass in the opposite direction talking of the wisdom and regrets of age.

I think about the lifetime of experiences between the rule breaking teenage boy and the craggle-faced man with regrets. I think about how distant the man’s age must seem to the boy and how near the boy’s age may seem to the man. Time is a funny thing.

Malabar and its beach from the National Park
Malabar and its beach from the National Park
Ancient rocks, endless sea
Ancient rocks, endless sea

The last time I did this Solstice ceremony I had feelings of lightness and release, unexpected but real. Today I’m trying to feel those things – and am sort of succeeding: being in the moment, breathing in big lungfuls of clean air, watching the sea. But, it’s not quite as good as the first time. Then I was farewelling a momentously bad year, while this one just past has been … well, just a year really. Better than some, worse than others. Even if the ceremony is about putting things behind and moving fresh into the new year – the reality is life is a continuum and the effects of the last year will continue.

Time, in the end, is like the the sea, it keeps rolling in – today, right now, both are steady and calm.

And that’s okay too – it’s been a gorgeous day and I’ve enjoyed reviewing and letting go.

The wreck of the MV Malabar
The wreck of the MV Malabar

Malabar is not named for the region of India but after a ship, the MV Malabar which shipwrecked on Miranda Point on 2 April 1931. Europeans, since arriving in the area in the 1860s – had called the suburb either Brand or Long Bay, the latter still naming the nearby prison.

Wiki says that the area had been a camping location for the original Indigenous residents. There are said to be carvings on the headland and that a rock overhang on the south side of Long Bay was used as a shelter for Aboriginal people suffering from smallpox in the late 1700s. An English historian wrote in 1882 that Aboriginal people referred to Long Bay as ‘Boora’. Scraps, all we have are tiny scraps from a once thriving culture and the few strong descendants of the survivors of a horrible, horrible injustice trying to hold on to what remains and piece together some of what was lost.

In the 2016 census Malabar was home to 5,420 people of whom 64.8% were male – I’m guessing the prison population is skewing that statistic as the state is only 49.3% male. 359 (6.6%) Malabar residents are of Aboriginal and/or Torres Strait Islanders heritage. 67% were born in Australia with England as the top overseas location with 3.5%. One-third had one or both parents born overseas (England, the top location). 1,925 (35.5%) show their religious affiliation as Not Stated (again, I think that’s the prisoners as state wide it was 9.2% – 1,920 did not state their education level as well – state wide 23%). Catholic came next with 26.5%. The top language, other than English, was Greek for 90 people or 1.7%

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Malabar is 12.3 km (7.6 miles) from home.

Malabar is in the local government area of the City of Randwick, the State Electorate of Maroubra (Labor – Michael Daley), and the Federal division of Kingsford-Smith (Labor, Matt Thistlethwaite) (prior to Matt this was the seat held by Peter Garrett, presently touring the world with Midnight Oil).

Long Time a Coming – Long Reef (No. 47*: 16 April 2017)

You’d almost think I’d grown weary of this project given how slowly I’ve returned to it after my time away, but that’s not it at all. I continue to love the idea but sometimes it just becomes hard to get there.

No 47: Long Reef ... slowly, slowly
No 47: Long Reef … slowly, slowly

While unemployed, my weekends weren’t a break from my labours – I could just as easily search for jobs at the weekend as any other time. Even if I wasn’t looking for work at the weekends I felt the pressure that, perhaps, I could be, I should be.  While unemployed, I was also more conscientious of spending money and felt that if I stayed close to home I’d spend less than if I went to the beach. That may not be true, but that’s how I felt.

So, I’ve been meaning to get to Long Reef for weeks but now that I am again professionally employed in a 9-5, Monday to Friday kind of way – it’s finally time.

It’s Easter Sunday and a cracker of a day: blue sky, light breeze, hot for April but not scorching. Australians being Australians are flocking to their chosen places of worship: the beach, the footy grounds, and other places of recreation and beer. I’m heading for the Manly Ferry – such a perfect day for it.

I walk through the picnickers and off-leash dogs in Hollis Park on my way to Macdonaldtown Station where I join a trainload of Sydney’s diversity for the ride into the city. At Circular Quay, I make my way through the throngs to Wharf 3 – where I find there are enough passengers queued to fill a ferry and a half. I guess I’ll take the bus.

From Wynyard Station I get a limited-stops bus which drops me at Collaroy Beach in about 40 minutes, from there I catch a local bus back two stops and pop into Outpost Espresso for a pick-me up.

It’s nearly 2 pm, and closing time, the only other customers are a salty, sandy, end-of-summer bronzed family of five getting milk shakes and iced lattes.

I find myself in a state of joyful liberation because I am employed and it is Sunday and there’s nothing I must do. I have employment and pay coming around the corner – so, no worries.

With this feeling of lightness, I set off for the walk past the golf club and Fisherman’s Beach (No 27 – visited in April 2013). Around Long Reef Point the footpath is crowded with families and couples. A paraglider is circling on the breeze, casting the occasional shocking shadow – like a giant raptor looking for prey. The sea is an autumn steel blue and crashing into the rocks below. I turn the corner and eye Long Reef Beach from its tucked-in northern end sweeping south and melding into Dee Why Beach (No 21 – visited February 2012).

Looking south from Long Reef point to Long Reef Beach and Dee Why beyond
Looking south from Long Reef point to Long Reef Beach and Dee Why beyond


Walking on Long Reef Beach
Walking on Long Reef Beach

I walk up the beach to the flagged area, plant myself near the Surf Lifesavers marquee and survey my fellow beach-goers. They are mostly white, mostly local – I’m guessing. There are a lot of families, a few clusters of teenagers, a smattering of couples. A toddler with caramel skin, curly locks and nothing but her Manly Sea Eagles bottoms on – dashes, laughing, away from her Surf Lifesaver father, who is trying to wrap her in a towel.

The sea is a bit dumpy and the flags are planted narrowly together so it is through a crowd I wade into the surf. The water is cool but I grow used to it, dunking my whole self beneath a folding wave and I’m happy to bob in the power of the ocean for a wee bit while dodging little kids on boogie boards and full-grown men body surfing into shore.

I realise I have not been in the open ocean – not a bay or harbour – since before I left for my Midlife Gap Year. Anywhere. I visited some on my ride home to Sydney from the Sunshine Coast in Queensland but for one reason or another didn’t swim at any of them. Admittedly I’m a bit intimidated by the surf – as a native of the American Midwest I came to ocean swimming late in life and being dependent on glasses to have clear vision – the power and mystery of rips and waves unsettle me. The last ocean beach I visited as part of this project was No. 31 Freshwater back in January 2014 – wow.

Autumn, Sydney-style.
Autumn, Sydney-style.

Wet and sea-salty I take up a position on the beach in the sun and enjoy the warmth of the autumn sun – generally more pleasant than Sydney’s often bitingly hot summer sun. It’s already late afternoon and I don’t stay long – but it’s been a lovely day for it and I’m glad I got to Long Reef before the beach season ends.

Long Reef was part of the homeland of the Dharug people, probably, before European invasion of Australia. The commonly used name, by Europeans, for the people who had been living in this area is Guringai, however, it now seems this is not what the people who lived here called themselves. Some rock engravings done by these people remain in the area.

European settlement began in 1815 when William Cossar (a master shipbuilder) was granted some 500+ acres (200+ hectares) including Long Reef. By 1825 it was in the hands of James Jenkins, a former convict who had been transported in 1802 for stealing sheep. His eldest child, Elizabeth, had inherited land in North Narrabeen in 1821 and with the 1825 acquisition, the Jenkins family owned all of the foreshore form Mona Vale to Dee Why. At the extent of their holdings they had 1800 acres (728 hectares).


 Long Reef is 24 kilometres (15 miles) from home.

For census purposes it’s in Collaroy, which was, in 2011 home to 14,388 people of whom 50, or 0.4%, identified as Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander. Conversely, 110 residents listed the United States as their country of birth. So there are more than twice as many Americans in Collaroy as there are Indigenous Australians.

It’s in the Northern Beaches Council local government area, the state electorate of Wakehurst (Liberal – Brad Hazzard), and federal division of Mackellar (Liberal – Jason Falinski).

*The next beach in the alphabetical list is actually Little Patonga – another Pittwater beach needing a boat. Four of those have now been set aside to be visited in one weekend out on the water, eventually: Gunyah (Brooklyn) No 35, Hallets No 37, Hungry No 39, and Little Patonga No 46.

Getting Naked on Little Congwong Beach (No 45, 2 January 2017)

No 45: Little Congwong (Monday 2 January)

Little Congwong is not officially clothing optional and yet it is.


So it was appropriate that I should visit while my friend Matthew is in town.

Matthew recently rode his bicycle from Eindhoven, the Netherlands to his hometown of Adelaide. I had been following his blog as I was preparing for my own big bicycle tour and, one day in December 2014, I was catching up on his story when I watched this video, and thought it was excellent.

I complimented the video, and, knowing he was summering in Australia (wisely not riding in the northern winter), I suggested that if he made to Sydney we might meet.

He messaged back that he was in Sydney and asked if I were free that afternoon.

I found him to be as interesting in person as he’d been on line.

Over the course of my mid-life gap-year, return to Australia, and time spent campaigning for Hillary Clinton we’ve maintained our on-line friendship – liking and commenting on each other’s stuff. While I was on my journey he was riding through Iran, Central Asia, China, South East Asia, and Australia.

He got home to Adelaide in August. Then, just before Christmas, rode to Sydney.

We’d caught up a few times before our beach outing and each time out I liked him more. He’s smart and funny, with a million stories of course, and, unlike any of my other friends, in pretty much the exact same place in life: mid-40s, having dramatically left behind an earlier version of ourselves to go on a big adventure, now on the other side of that we’re trying to figure out what comes next, how to be our genuine selves and be gainfully employed. Oh, and we’re also both on the market for boyfriends.

One thing Matthew enjoyed doing on his journey across the world was to sometimes ride naked. So, a perfect companion for a trip to an unofficially clothing-optional beach.

Matthew met me in Newtown and we set off on our convoluted bus journey to La Perouse under threatening skies. From King Street we walked down Erskineville Road, and into Swanson. We had coffees at Ella Guru Café while it rained.  We then pushed on to McEvoy Street to catch the 370 to the University of NSW and the 391 to La Perouse.

I hadn’t been down that way in, well, years. There’s something about that peninsula, once you get past Maroubra which feels apart from Sydney. It feels more like something down the south coast, some misplaced bit of Sussex Inlet or Nowra.

That is, until you get to La Perouse which is always more Asian and Middle Eastern than those places. And, of course, there are more Aboriginal people. La Perouse is one of the few places in all of Sydney where Aboriginal people have an unbroken record of continual residence.

I also like that Matthew is at least as frugal, if not more frugal, than I am so we perused the lunch menus of the restaurants of La Perouse with one eye and, not surprisingly, settled on the old-school fish and chippery.


Once fed we made our way, down the stairs through the bush to Congwong Beach (No 16 – visited a lifetime ago on 3 April 2011), to the far end, and along a further bush path to Little Congwong.


Just as we emerged we ran into a Polish family who warned us there are naked people on the beach – we know, we said. And Matthew chatted with the guy for a bit – here’s a place where we’re different, he’s happy for a chat with anyone.

Sure enough at the near end of the bush-backed, slightly curving 150m or so long beach there were a few topless and naked women sun bathing. There were some men and women in bathers. We kept walking toward the far end of the beach where there were some naked men and other men in skimpy bathers. “We’re definitely in your neighbourhood now,” I said. He offered to head back the other way and I was like, oh, no, I have no problem with naked gay men.

We spread our towels and Matthew got his kit off, but sat in such a way that his junk wasn’t all obvious to me as we chatted. I was happy clothed.

At the far end of the beach a lean, bronzed, naked, middle-aged man was exercising. He had dumbbells and did standing arm curls, and shoulder presses. He did squats and lay on his back doing bicycle kicks. And a variety of other exercises you’d expect on a 1950s parade ground of soldiers dressed in white t-shirts tucked into small shorts. But he was naked. And on the beach. We watched and chuckled. And Matthew mimicked him with is bottle of Dare.

See naked man with dumbbells in the background.

Mathew went for a swim and fell into conversation with a young European man who was part of a quartet of guys parked near us. Matthew’s new friend, a Belgian, was married to another of the quartet but he, his husband, was up in the bush checking out the cruising scene. My time with Matthew has been an eye-opening, fascinating, education in the ways of life in a certain segment of the gay-male world. Having been dateless and single for quite a while now, I admit a certain envy of the easy, fearless (or at least less worried – about violence, about pregnancy), open, sex-driven culture he’s part of. And, really, it’s just fascinating and deeply foreign – a culture I can no more access than Saudi politics, Japanese yakuza, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

It rained a bit. The sun came out and then disappeared again. When it was out it was like an overly powerful heat lamp much too close at hand.

Walkers on the bridge to Bare Island.

I wasn’t going to swim. The water was fresh, but not too cool, just sort of dumpy and churning. In the end, I realised I’d regret not having gone in. I have come to like nude beaches; I like swimming naked. And I am at best invisible to the gay men on the beach and at worst irrelevant. So, with Matthew already in the water and chatting with another of the quartet of men. I stripped down, hugged my boobs and marched into the water. And then tip-toed to where they stood. It is a bit strange – the conversing with people while naked.

We emerged, dried, and laughed once more at the exercising man – now wearing a hat and chatting with a naked fisherman. Then we were done, we dressed, and made our way back to the bus stop and on to the City.

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We didn’t ride but this is, pretty much, the route we took to get there.

Little Congwong is about 17 kilometres from my home. La Perouse is home to 418 people according to the 2011 census. Of these, 27.9% identified as Australian and 19.2% as Australian Aboriginal. (Compared with 0.3% of all New South Wales, and 0.5% of all of Australia.) The balance were 17.5% English, 6.1% Irish, and 4.3% Greek.

Little Congwong is the City of Randwick, the State electorate of Maroubra (Labor – Michael Daley), and Federal Division of Kingsford Smith (Labor – Matt Thistlethwaite).


All of My Sisters in Burqinis are Enjoying Christmas Day at Lady Robinson’s Beach (No 44 – 25 December 2016)

In recent years, I’ve made the tradition of a Jew’s Christmas my own. In the United States that’s a movie and Chinese food. But this is Australia so: a swim, a movie, and Chinese food.

Lady Robinson’s Beach is on Botany Bay between the mouths of the Cooks River and the Georges River.


European settlers (invaders) named this Seven Mile Beach but it was renamed during the tenure of the 14th Governor of New South Wales, Sir Hercules Robinson. He served from March 1872 to February 1879 and the beach was named for his wife, Lady Robinson, or Nea Arthur Ada Rose D’Amour. The fifth daughter of the ninth Viscount Valentia.

Sir Hercules’ career, Lady Robinson’s as well, reads like a stereotype of British colonial service: Administrator of Montserrat, Lt Governor of Saint Christopher (Saint Kitts), Governor of Hong Kong, of British Ceylon, of Fiji, of New Zealand, Acting Governor of British Mauritius, High Commissioner for Southern Africa, and Governor of the Cape Colony. Yet, he managed to get home to London to die in October 1897, aged 62.

Their daughter, Nora Robinson, wed Alexander Kirkman Finlay at St James’ Church in Sydney in 1878. The groom owned Glenormiston, a large station in Victoria. This wedding was the second vice-regal wedding in New South Wales and, as such, attracted much public attention – a crowd estimated up to 10,000 gathered outside the church.

Wedding party for marriage of Nora Augusta Maud, daughter of Sir Hercules and Lady Nea Robinson, to A.K. Finlay, Sydney, August, 1878 (Lady Robinson is seated, facing the bride)

I do suggest reading Sir Hercules’ Wikipedia page. It’s both fascinating and a strange and unlikely tale to be tied to this stretch of beach – which, on Christmas Day 2016 is hosting families from all around the world – a few of whom, were surely, from other places touched by Sir Hercules’ colonial hand.

The day, while breezy, is otherwise a perfect Sydney Christmas Day: sunny, warm but not too hot, not too humid. Just lovely.

Every bit of shade in the reserve has been colonised by a United Nations of families: East Asian, South Asian, Middle Eastern, European, and African. Many are clearly Muslims, some probably Buddhist – the Christians come for a dip and go back to their parties and lunches at home.

Christmas is the day when I feel most Jewish, not that I practice, but on this day I usually feel very much an Outsider. But not here, not at Lady Robinson’s Beach, where today is, mostly, a day for non-Christians making the most of a holiday courtesy of the Christian majority.

There is a busy shark-netted swimming enclosure. Jet skis buzz along the shore. International flights circle, approach from the southwest, and land on Sydney Airport’s third runway while other planes queue for their turn to depart. In the distance, the cranes of Sydney’s port fill the horizon.

I love this beach. I love how it’s a bit gritty in a working class, working port, immigrant families way – the antithesis of the glitzy beautiful-people blonde-haired blue-eyed stereotype of Sydney’s beaches.

There are more women and girls on this beach in burqinis than bikinis.

And I love that too. I love that an Australian woman, Aheda Zanetti, started a company, Ahiida, to provide swimming attire that allows Muslim women, who choose to abide by dictates of modest dress, to fully participate in this most Australian of activities – swimming in the sea and enjoying the beach.


I wade into the Bay – the water is cooling, refreshing but not cold. I move slowly to where I’m waist deep then dive in. Emerging I feel a wave of welled and condensed emotions – a rejoicing for my return home, finally, to Sydney, and the easy contentment that has brought me, also some nostalgia for the 19 months of travel and volunteering gone by and the knowledge I’m unlikely to have that kind of open-ended freedom again, and, too, some sadness, for hopes unfulfilled. All of that in the woosh of rising out of the water, raising my arms to splash the sea around me, and then feeling the heat of the sun on my wet skin.

I sit for a time on the beach and write – as I do, an excited family group arrives, first a dad and kids running past me into the water than the younger women, in colourful burqinis, then older women in flowing black hijabs and matching garb. They were all, seemingly, having a really lovely time – while making for a striking scene – these black clad women, wading in the shallows, the planes and port cranes in the background.


I rode my bicycle home, enjoyed sweet and sour chicken at the Happy Chef then met some new Jewish friends for a screening of La La Land at Bondi Junction.

And so, another Australian Jewish Christmas in the books and a good beach from which to restart this blog.

Lady Robinson’s Beach was an 13.5 kilometre (8.3 mile) bicycle ride from home.

The portion of the beach which I visited is in Kyeemagh, a suburb in the Bayside Council.

Kyeemagh is a wee little suburb – home to 780 people of whom 37.5 % were born overseas (Greece 10.5%, Lebanon 2.3%, and Cyprus 2.2%). English is the primary language spoken in 44.3% of homes. (All per the 2006 census.)

It’s in the Rockdale State Electorate (Steve Kamper, Labor) and the Federal Division of Barton (Linda Burney, Labor). (It has been a LONG time since I’ve been to a beach represented at both levels by the Labor Party.)

The Last Beach Before My Travel Began, No 43: Lady Martin’s – 17 May 2015

Is this a bit of a cheat?

I visited Lady Martin’s on 17 May 2015 – one week before I departed for my midlife gap year – but never posted about it.

I don’t want to visit it again so I’m going back to my diary from the day to write it up now.


Lady Martin’s is a wee crescent of beach at the bottom of Point Piper. I suspect in any other country it would be privately held and divvied up among the millionaires whose mansions hover nearby. These include the current Prime Minister of Australia, Malcolm Turnbull. Of course, when I visited back in 2015 he was fuming on the back benches as Tony Abbott went about his business of losing popularity.

Sneaky access: the pathway next to the Prince Edward Yacht Club.

Here’s what I wrote then:

There’s real and lovely warmth in the sun – which burns bright when not obscured by clouds. The light shimmers blindingly on the weak harbour waves as they flush ashore with a rhythmic, sleep-encouraging hush.

A flotilla or racing yachts rush past out on the harbour.


There is a party – a birthday party  perhaps – at the Prince Edward Yacht Club. A one-man-band plays groovy guitar jazz.

Among the party guests are many multicultural, multilingual families – a wee girl speaks French, English, and Russian. But mostly people seem to be speaking French. Which seems appropriate as I realised earlier today that I really will need to learn some of that language.

Had I come at high tide I expect there’d have been little beach to visit as the sand is wet right up to the retaining wall. As it is, there’s maybe five meters of beach running 100 meters or fewer and bisected by the yacht club’s pier.

The beach is Sydney-sandstone golden and surrounded by about a billion dollars’ worth of residential property. It’s a place to really celebrate the decision, early in Australia’s story, to keep beaches, all of them, even little ones like this – public.

It’s lovely. I’m so glad I came.

Next Sunday … will I have time for a beach before my flight?

The following … a river ride and the Giro d’Italia?

Close enough to a swim for May.
Close enough to a swim for May.

Lady Martin’s Beach is in the Municipality of Woollhara, the State Electorate of Vaucluse (Gabrielle Upton, Liberal) and Federal Division of Wentworth (Malcolm Turnbull, Liberal).


The Day After – On Resilience

I’ve said much of what I want to say about the events of yesterday on Facebook, mostly in the wee hours, and I’ll paste that in below.

A good friend has said that he can’t wait for me to process this whole trip to the US that I have had because he wants to read what I’ll have to say about it.

I do feel like it will take some time to wrap my head (and heart) around all that has happened here, for me, to me, since August. I came with two hopes, neither fulfilled, but along the way so many, many, good things have happened.

I came because I feared just this outcome and wanted to do what I could to prevent it.

My one Trump-supporting Facebook friend commented on one of my posts today that I have wasted my time. To which I replied, and this before Hillary’s concession speech in which she said something similar, that it’s never a waste of time to fight for what you believe in.

I haven’t watched or read the news today. I’ve seen some headlines but that’s about it. I’m going to step away from it all for a bit – there’s nothing there I feel I need to know right now.

What I ended up doing today was this:

I woke to a grey sky after four or five hours of sleep.

I spoke some with Emma, our organiser here in Old Town, about how we were both doing … okay. We did what we could to prevent this. Now, it is what it is – we must work to assure it isn’t as awful as we feared and hope it’s a lot better.

Then I went to a diner and ate blueberry pancakes. It seemed to me people were being kinder and quieter than usual.

I took the Metro to Arlington National Cemetery to visit Medgar Evers, Thurgood Marshall, and the Kennedys.

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A formation of three or four fighter jets roared overhead with one of them peeling off just above me. My eyes welled in the realisation that those machines and the men and women who operate them will soon be under the command of Donald J. Trump.

At John Kennedy’s grave I was overtaken by a gaggle 8th graders from North Carolina. They all had matching t-shirts. A few wore Girl Scout vests, one, a hijab; they were black, white, South Asian and Latino. I wanted to look each of them in the eye and say, “I am so sorry.”

I got into  politics in the first place because of Bobby Kennedy. Visiting him today I thought it was important to take the time to write down the familiar quotes at his gravesite. As I wrote them a man said it might be easier to take a photo. I explained that I knew the quotes but felt today was a good day to write them down. He asked if I was a historian; I said, “no – just a fan” gesturing towards Bobby’s grave. “Well, that makes you sort of a historian than, really.:”

It is from numberless acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal or acts to improve the lot of others he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope and crossing each other from a million different centres of energy and daring those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance – South Africa, 1965

Aeschylus wrote: In our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart and in our despair against our will comes the awful grace of God.

What we need in this country is not division what we need in the United States is not hatred what we need in the United States is not violence or lawlessness but love and wisdom and compassion toward one another and a feeling of justice toward all those who still suffer within our country whether they be white or they be black. Let us dedicate ourselves to what the Greeks wrote so many years ago – to tame the savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world. Let us dedicate ourselves to that and say a prayer for our country and our people. – Indianapolis 1968 (on the night of MLK’s assassination)

It was then I began to see my day was going to be healing and empowering.

From there I walked to the Lincoln Memorial and was met by the usual swarm of tourists. I heard a lot of Spanish speakers. A young African-American tour guide led a group including two heavy set older white men in Alabama sweatshirts and caps. He brought them to the point where Martin Luther King Jr stood to deliver his “I have a dream” speech.


Inside another guide said to his charges, “I would make the argument that America is still suffering from the wounds of the Civil War.”

A two year old gazed up at Abe in wonder.


A lesbian couple held each other while reading The Second Inaugural speech, delivered on 4 March 1865 some four years into the Civil War:

…With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

As I strode away in the direction of the Martin Luther King Jr memorial I noticed a young white guy taking extra effort to take a good photo for three black guys posed against the famous back drop of the Reflecting Pool, Washington Memorial and, in the distance, Capital Dome. When he’d done with that I saw him strike up a conversation with another black guy. I had a feeling he was trying to be extra kind, trying to do something to counter the election of Donald Trump.

I dubbed my walk the American Resilience Tour.

The sky had gone steel-grey and angry by the time I got to Martin Luther King Jr. There I found a trio of women, about my age, and overheard one say, “I’m so glad we stopped. We so needed this today.”

An African-American guy was lingering at the feet of MLK looking morose. I heard him say to someone on the phone that he often comes here when he’s feeling low.



Then to the Franklin Delano Roosevelt memorial and more quotes that felt so appropriate to the day.






I then finished the day at the Holocaust Museum.

I was uncertain the museum was the right way to end the day but it is an ode to human resilience and a reminder of why I came to America in the first place.

Fascism is no joke – this Trump presidency calls for a new age of vigilance and activism.


We all – not just in America, but everywhere – need to be in it, we need to be paying attention, and we need to be acting – not just talking, not just Tweeting, and blogging and liking and sharing, but participating in real-life.

This is a resilient country. Americans are a resilient people. They, and we all, will get through this.

Here is what I said on Facebook on Election Night:

At 11:35 pm:

I feel sick. We are in trouble people – all of us – even if she pulls this out, and I sure hope she does, but I’m feeling sick, like I said. Something has gone wrong. Somehow we have to come together and solve these problems – the problems of people everywhere who feel like they have been f**ked by the system as we know it.

At 12:51am:

Complacency + a lack of empathy = we’re all fucked.

At 1:30am:

I’m going to sleep (perhaps with my Australian passport under my pillow). And I’ll see out my time here feeling a little guilty for being able to go home. When I get there I’m going to take a break from politics for a bit but then find a way to throw in with people working to lessen the fear, close the gaps, increase empathy and try to assure we have a system that works for as many people as possible.

What’s happened in America is part of a big big world wide problem. It’s on all of us to try to solve it – with empathy and understanding.

People who feel hard done by, feel hard done by. Dismissing their feelings as whinging or selfishness breeds contempt for the system, distrust in the policy makers, and civil discordance.

There are a lot of people feeling hard done by – Trump voters, Bernie voters, Black Lives Matter folks, young people struggling to get a hand on the ladder, any ladder – all of them have legitimate complaints that have been dismissed or manipulated by the powers that be.

I don’t know what the solution is but I think it involves ratcheting down the rhetoric and finding a way to really listen to one another somehow.

At 3am: Final comment. Sleeping now, really.

Wednesday morning: The sun has risen, the world is still on it’s axis. I’m going to go find pancakes and read my novel. For my friends in very dark places today – take a deep breath, go for a walk, gets some rest. We, everywhere, need to ready ourselves.

9 November Will be Scary No Matter What (21 Days)

18 October – 21 Days

Three weeks from today is Election Day.

Here’s how it feels to me.

Hillary will win but not by as much as might be expected. Some of the people who were willing to hold their noses and vote for her to save the Republic will now skip voting for president in confidence (rightly or wrongly) their vote won’t be crucial.

The energy levels here in Alexandria have risen and fallen and risen again over the time I have been here.

At first it felt as if many were a bit complacent. Then the polls tightened and more people started registering to vote and joining us as volunteers. The first debate happened and the horror of Donald J Trump began registering more clearly, and more people joined us. When the video emerged of his bragging about sexual assault – I think the energy dropped. I know mine did. I woke that Saturday morning thinking, really? Are people really going to still vote for him? Do we still need to labour so diligently? And that day volunteer numbers were a bit down.

But then as it became clear, even as Republican leaders repudiated him, that many of supporters are welded on. The danger of even a significant minority voting for him seemed palpable in those days after the tape emerged and as women began coming forward with accusations.

And that’s where we are now.

Here’s what I fear. Trump will lose but not by as much as he should which will demonstrate the appetite in this country for hate-filled, blame-mongering, strong-father-authoritarian style leadership. The people who support him will feel, as they already do, empowered and that their views are normal and mainstream. Trump is setting them up to refuse to accept his defeat, assuming he is defeated. He is, as he has been all along, fuelling violence. Trump himself may fade but his campaign has given oxygen to American fascism.

I fear there will be regular, if unorganised and sporadic, violence. That so many police organsiations have backed Trump adds to the worst-case scenario.

I think Trump himself will probably fade, but the thing to fear is the emergence of a charismatic leader and organiser who is able to ride and control this wave. That’s not Trump – he doesn’t have the discipline or, I suspect, the interest. But somewhere out there in Trumpland are people who can see the potential of his supporters and hope to harness them to their will.

This thing won’t end on three weeks from today, not by a long shot.

Inside the Roar – At Game 5 of the NLDS

I have never had an experience like it, ever.

Trying to find a way to describe it, to capture it, is a writer’s challenge, one I’m struggling with a little bit.

Last night I was one of the 40,000 plus fans at Nationals Park for the final game of the best-of-five National League Divisional Series – that is, the baseball game between the Washington Nationals and the Los Angeles Dodgers.

I was thinking about the best rock concerts I have been to, how they become symbiotic waves of energy – the band pumping energy out into the crowd, the crowd feeding off of it and adding to it, giving it back to the band. The energy climbs up, up, up. It climbs and then circles back and climbs again. But everyone knows how it will end, the band will play what they are going to play and then it’s over. There’s no worry about the outcome.

A sporting match is fundamentally different because the outcome is unknown. So the energy and noise last night responded to play in this mix of steadily rising waves, arching electric moments, plummeting crashes and lulls of exhaustion.

The game began at 8 pm. It was chilly from the beginning and got colder as we went. The weather made this really feel like October baseball – which is a special thing in its own right. If your team is still playing on 13 October, they’ve had a good season.

So I was moving to keep warm.

And I was yelling, roaring, clapping, whistling – just making human noise. Most people around me were also making human noise. Not constantly but steadily. Some was choreographed – with the big signs encouraging noise and prompting chants of “Let’s Go Nats!” But mostly it was just raw noise.

At a game, when I’m really on it, and locked in, I’m almost mindless or I guess mindful. My mind is full of the game. I’m just watching and not thinking much about anything else. Intense as my gaze is I’m not recording the details but just watching the play and feeling my responses to it.

So I can’t now detail the game accurately without notes but I know we got a run early, and that our pitcher, Max Scherzer, held them scoreless over many quick innings. I know we should have scored more and had the opportunities to do so.  I know that they got on the board with a solo home run in the 7th and the manager pulled Max and then the Dodgers piled on some more runs – I think it was 4-1 by the time we batted again. They brought in their closer in the 7th. In the 8th we brought in ours. In the bottom of that inning we scored two runs. In the 9th we got two runners on with one out. They brought in their ace, Kershaw, and he faced our best hitter, Murphy. They pitched to him, rather than walking him intentionally, and got the better of him. He popped out, not deep into the at-bat – this was not the mid-season Murphy. All that stood between us and oblivion was Wilmer Difo. He’s a rookie, just 60 some MLB games all up. But he’s a professional baseball player so he could have done it, could have put the ball into the outfield, to tie the game, but he didn’t.

And all through this the waves of human noise, and the rising and falling of emotion and energy. Maybe it’s me projecting my own feelings onto to the world around me or maybe I am really describing the energy in this park. I don’t know – all I can say is this was my experience.

It was so unlike a rock gig but still all I can compare it to – the rising and falling of the energy and noise was driven by unscripted and not-entirely predictable human actions and reactions. The pitch, the swing, the umpire’s judgement. Dusty’s decision to pull Max. The Third Base coach’s decision to send Werth, who was then out at the plate. A diving catch by Trea Turner. The hopes that rose when Murphy came to bat in the bottom of the 9th – even though they had brought in Kershaw. This was arguably the best batter in the league facing the best pitcher for the chance to play on. That both had recently been out injured added to the thing.

You could almost feel the vacuum, the air rushing out of the stadium, at the worst moments – Werth called out at the plate, Max giving up the homerun, and, of course, the final out.

Everyone has their thing, their own thing in this space. That too is how it’s different from a gig – at a gig you are more cohesive as an audience, the audience becomes its own entity in the same way the musicians on the stage become a band. In the best of these gigs it’s a dance of two partners – band and audience.

But at the ballpark – while we were all in it together and together we created these crashing waves of noise and energy, it is more the conglomeration of 40,000 individual reactions. We each have our own animal way of engaging with and responding to what’s happening. Your willingness to roar and how you roar, its pitch and tenor, the length. And a game like this which was both win or go home and an amazing game in its own right – it would have been a great game at midseason – people are willing to roar and clap and whistle and just make human noise.

Towards the end I was making noise between pitches but during at bats I went very still, I breathed evenly and with attention, I stared at the relevant Nationals player – be it pitcher or batter. Here my friend Atif accused me of praying, which, of course I wasn’t – I was willing, I was giving – sending my energy to the players to be calm and focused and to be successful.

I guess the only difference between what he accused me of and what I was doing was the belief in a deity. I have no deity but I was trying to direct my energy, my calm, and concentration toward my players, to add to their own and make their job easier. I would not have thought that’s how I would finish the day but it was.

And then it was over. I sat for a moment and breathed and felt my shoulders slump and my head drop. Other fans began shuffling past. Everyone in their own pocket of disappointment. It was suddenly very late and it seemed like the tired and cold had caught up with us all. It was just shy of 1 am and the Nationals’ season was over.