Today I took advantage of the warm sunshine, to walk a deserted rural beach. For I'm currently up the coast, to see my girlfriend for a few days. I'm feeling decidedly precious right now, on the eve of 50. As I walked through the foreshore, slowly recovering some condition from a week in the cab, I pondered if I wasn't one of the oldest bloggers around !
Surveys has shown that bloggers aged 40-49, constitute only 1% of all bloggers. The majority remains to date, aged 16-29, reflecting bloggings origins as an in-house academic tool. 9/11 changed all that though, as the demand for instant information exploded across the internet. Still, if I ask ten people in the cab about blogs, nine have never heard of them. And usually the solitary one has heard of blogs, yet never uses them. Maybe a charge for email will change all that.
For those of you logging in from an office chair, this could be tough........ early this afternoon on the beach, the sun blazed pleasantly, due to a teasing 10-15 knot sou-easterly breeze. In the distance a hovering mirage of sand drifts, salt spray and coastal heath obscure this never-ending beach. In my dotage, I'm finding an increased sensitivity to persistent noise. Yet I enjoy the constant roar, from the 2 foot slop, breaking off low-tide sandbars. It barely drowns out feeding gulls in the offshore gutter.
You think you are bearing straight along the beach, until looking back, and realising the pronounced arc being traversed. I briefly consider if this isn’t a metaphor for 50, then laugh it off to the passing breeze. With a passing cloud shadow, the water between the breaks changes colour, from Pacific blue to dark green,. As I approach a distant river mouth, I notice a group of surfers playing in the slop, off a grey granite break wall. The sou-easterly is robbing them of perfect surf, on their day off school.
Visiting a nearby town for lunch I made the mistake of entering a Telstra shop. Talk about an exercise in frustration. All I want is a camera phone, for no money on a budget plan. A complicating consideration for me is night image quality. Instead, I left with an armful of brochures, which is going to need the in-depth study only a Consumers Guide can provide. Bingo. I’ll get onto Choice. They must have done camera phones by now. Those sales reps at Telstra only confuse me, no end.
This afternoon, I hung around a fishing village and its dockside, eating lunch, reading the paper and drafting up this post. Inside the breakwall, the river is glassy calm. A travellers yacht arrives from the south and motors gently under the lee of a burnt oxide headland. Dropping anchor, a tanned leather bloke secures the rigging and dinghy for the night. Thereafter, he uses a bucket over the side and proceeds to sluice down the cockpit, and finally himself, dressed just in a pair of board shorts. Bastard.
On the drive home I resolve, once again, to purchase a boat, to live on for a time. This is a long held desire, and essential to living on one of the great waterways of the world. Once in Alaska, I met a travel agent from San Diego. Having extensively travelled the world, she was adamant that the best harbours in the world were Hong Kong by night and Sydney by day. To experience Sydney and the coast from a boat, in any shape or form, adds an delightful dimension to the place.
Still, I reflect, I’m not doing too badly to date. As the proud father of a wonderful son, I draw strength and great love from a wonderful family, and a girlfriend, angels impersonate. At 50, I’m a lucky man. Praise the Lord.