School was out and a bunch of us were heading up to the Gold Coast for Schoolies Week. It was a time for us to let down our hair and relax before moving on to meaningful employment or university, whichever we thought appropriate.
We were free, white and twenty one, as the old saying goes, and the world was our oyster. Those old sayings really suck at times. Nowadays it's enough to be eighteen. Our parents are quite willing to point out that we're not free, we cost them a fortune. As for being white - don't say that, you racist, you.
All that aside, half a dozen of us, two boys and four girls, had pooled our resources, begged and pleaded until our parents contributed a little more, and wound up in this old micro-bus, heading north for sun, sand, sea and surf. There's another three letter 'S' word that can be added to that, but we didn't say it. Modesty forbids, and all that.
We left Melbourne, leaving the cold and the rain with no regrets, cutting straight across country to the Gold coast. It was a nice long run of slightly over a thousand miles, along good roads and, sharing the driving, we did it in an easy two days. We considered just doing it in one, driving constantly, but we'd have been bushed when we got there and would have probably lost a day recovering. Two days suited us fine.
While we all talk about Schoolies Week, we were going to be there for nearly two, having lucked into some accommodation via a friend of Marie's parents. They had a time-share residence, but what with one thing and another they couldn't get away this year and so had let us have it.
We had a ball. We met old friends from school and made new friends. We visited the beaches and the theme parks and generally ran riot (in a refined way, of course). There was one awkward incident that befell me after we'd been there a couple of days.
We'd gone to the beach at Surfer's (for the uninitiated, that's what we call Surfer's Paradise), and I'd wanted a drink. The shops are right there, next to the beach. Cross the road and you've all the tourist traps right at your fingertips. I'd trotted across the road and got a milk-shake. Maybe not a very sophisticated drink, but I was in the mood for something sweet and sticky and chocolatey.
So here am I, sucking on a straw, heading out of the shops and back to the beach. I was watching the kids darting in and out of the flat fountain. You know the type. They're built into the footpath and squirt water up, very embarrassing if they take you unawares. Now as I said, I was watching the kids playing with the fountain, while circling around it myself, and someone called my name.
I should have stopped and turned around to see who it was. What I did was to keep walking while turning half around to look. It was Marie, and I waved to her and yelled something, and walked smack into the back of some man who was just standing on the footpath, talking to someone.
Oh, boy, he was really something. He was at least six foot tall, lean and handsome, beautiful golden tan, dark hair and dark blue eyes, in his late twenties. I took one look at him and my heart started hammering away, doing triple time. What really got me excited was what he was wearing; a beautiful dark blue Armani suit, a silk shirt that went really well with the suit, and half a container of chocolate milk-shake.
Oh, he was also wearing a stunned, incredulous, expression.
He slowly looked me up and down while I tried to stammer an apology. I could feel his eyes on me, and my bikini, which had looked so good when I put it on, seemed to shrink to nothing, exposing everything. I kept on yammering away, saying how sorry I was, and offering to pay for the dry cleaning, until he held up a hand to shut me up.
"Don't say anything more," he said quietly, and he had a real dreamy voice. Pity he ruined my impression of him with his next choice of words. "Just go away."
Then he turned his back to me and continued with his discussion to the man he had been talking to, totally ignoring the milk-shake dripping off his clothes. I slunk away, my mood not improved by a laughing Marie catching up to me.
"My," she said. "He's a honey, isn't he? I must say you made a terrific first impression with him."
"It was totally your fault," I grumbled. "You distracted me."
We wandered on back to the beach. I didn't have the nerve to go back and replenish my milk-shake. I'd get one later, I decided.
I managed to forget him over the next couple of days, having fun, getting some exercise and some sun, and flirting with the boys, although not seriously. Then came the day of the mopeds.
On the Gold Coast you can hire mopeds by the day. For the low powered models you don't even need a licence, though they do prefer you to be at least eighteen. We decided we'd each hire a moped for the day and just go where the notion took us, not necessarily all to the same destination. The mopeds gave us total freedom.
I went for a drive down the coast. I thought I'd make it to the Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary. Marie was tagging along with me. I can actually ride a motorbike, and riding a moped was child's play. We were tootling down the highway making good time.
The mopeds, with their tiny engines, were very quiet, and Marie and I could talk (yell) to each other as we rode along. This proved to be a mistake. Marie yelled something that I didn't quite catch and I turned to look at her. When I glanced back at the road it was to find myself charging straight at a big black BMW that had stopped at a red light.
Marie had no problem. She jinked across to the inside lane where there was no traffic. I wasn't in a position to do that in time and had to lean on the brakes. I almost stopped in time. There was this small thud as I rear-ended the BMW. It was only a small bump and there was no damage, not to the BMW and not to the moped. (My damaged pride doesn't count.)
Now if you're in a car, especially an expensive car like that BMW, and someone bumps into you, obviously you're going to take a look. The driver's door opened and out stepped, you guessed it, Mr Tall, Golden, and Handsome. He looked at me and recognised me. I suppose you have cause to remember someone who pours a milk-shake all over your nice Armani suit.
"You know, I'm sure you're dying to meet me, but that expression isn't meant to be taken literally," he said, the sarcastic swine.
I started to apologise and explain that there was no damage but he held up his hand in that shushing motion again.
"No, don't say anything," he said. "I'm sure everything's fine. Just do me a favour and give me a five minute start, before you come chasing after me."
With that he got back in his car, ignoring me. The light changed and he drove off, with Marie and me following slowly behind. We finished up giving him his short start. Marie was laughing too hard to get her moped moving and, when I pointed out it was her fault, she just laughed harder. There's no justice in this world.
We continued on our way to Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary. That place is fantastic. When we walked in we were handed a tin tray and one of the staff poured in some milky gunk. A dozen lorikeets promptly landed on the plate to taste the stuff. They don't just land on the plates, either. At one stage I had birds on both arms and later a couple landed on my head. Terrific if you're a bird lover but a bit nerve wracking if you're not.
After feeding the birds we took a tour of the place. When we were in the big aviary at the top of a hill Marie tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at a tree I was standing next to. I looked and I saw a tree.
"Look, you idiot," she said. "That branch isn't a branch."
