Northern Cooloola, Great Sandy National Park

Russ: "Did you do any body surfing when you grew up in Wisconsin?"
Me: "No, we don't get much of that there."
---
Australia Day, January 26, 2009.

My friend Jason invited me camping over the holiday weekend: Seven men for three days of camping. I didn't really have to do anything before the trip other than figure out what to prepare for one meal and get my gear in order.
Before I go any further with this post, I am going to acknowledge that I have an amazing, giving and loving wife who let me go off on a boys weekend while I left her stuck at home with no air conditioning. I would have to watch chick flicks every weekend for the rest of the year to make it up to her.

Imagine 40 kilometres of gorgeous beach which can only be accessed by four wheel drive vehicles. You are allowed to camp along 15 kilometres of that beach with a permit, and when we drove along it on Saturday morning it was stacked up cheek by jowl with campers.
We were camping near at Freshwater Campground near Double Island Point. It is a serviced camp ground with 55 sites, showers and water set among scribbly gum woodland. We would be roughing it in semi-luxury.

Since the access was limited to people who owned four wheel drive vehicles and were also willing to get salt water sprayed on their undercarriage while driving on the beach there was an element of exclusivity to this park. We were camping on the busiest weekend of the year and I still felt like it was our private beach.

I could write for pages about how beautiful the scenery was, how clean and clear the water was, and how I spent most of my time in the water feeling like shark bait, but not caring. I don't think it would do any of it justice, so I will let the photos speak for me.

no special reason for this photo, I just liked the tree

Russ, Jason, Bruce, me, Nathan and Brad

driving back to the beach on a 4WD track

Open and Honest Communication

"Daddy, it is all about sharing!" [I was apparently hogging the soccer ball.]

"You are supposed to look fierce when riding the scooter." [There are not enough words to describe to my son how impossible it is for me to do that.]

"I wish daddy had to go to work today." [This was a real knife to the side.]

These are just a sampling from this weekend.

I like to think I can take criticism and rejection--after all, I survived junior high school. I know this is just the beginning, but I thought there would be a more abrupt transition. I expected there to be a specific age when my children would turn on me. That doesn't appear to be the case.

It seems to be happening with a few sly comments that take me by surprise. Another few years and the tide will turn and I will probably go for days waiting to hear something nice and will be equally as surprised.

An Open Letter to the Spider Who Lives In the Tree In Our Yard

Dear Mr. Big Spider,

Please stop building spider webs across our front gate. I am tired of walking through them in the dark then doing the stupid spider dance where I spin around slapping the sides of my face and swatting at my back.

Where I come from, spiders are a little more modest about their size and they choose to build webs in corners of barns or attics or places where the web can only enhance the spooky ambiance. They also take pride in the construction of their snares instead of hastily stringing a few lines across the driveway at head height.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful, I appreciate you clearing the flies and bugs from the air; I just don't want to be part of the process.

Look, we have a large front yard and you live in a very large tree. I am sure we can reach a compromise.

Warm Regards,

-joe