Talking Heads

There’s a lot of money knocking around Noosa. I’ll go out on a limb here and guess that the river that winds through the town is probably called the Noosa River, everything is pragmatically named here. Its banks are dominated by hot tub fronted luxury homes sporting private jetties and runaround watercraft. Its like the Floridian Gulf Coast islands except where the local Floridians are all about bare feet and your past it but comfy khaki shorts, the clientele of Noosa would lean more towards slick shades and the latest boardies. Having said that Noosa also attracts another type of person. The die hard surfer. Two words: Noosa Heads. Five, yes five point breaks in a row. Five point breaks that when working are world class. I’ve seen the videos gawped at the photographs and met folks who’ve experienced the true glory but I’ve been to Noosa twice now and still haven’t been able to surf the bloody points.

I made the first trip north out of Brissy to doorstep Phil Jarratt, acclaimed surf writer and proprietor of Back Beach, and surf culture store at Noosa junction. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t practice guerilla style journalism, Phil knew I was going to turn up sooner or later I just got itchy and made the trip on spec, opting to hang around his shop until he made an appearance. The heads were working that day, maybe not to their full potential but that’s irrelevant, there was swell. By the time I was finished with Phil it was getting dark so I hit the road home battling my disappointment with the consolation prize of the interview I’d gotten with Phil.

I hit off back to Noosa again early this week but this time it was for some horse riding on the beach. Equathon Trail Rides had offered us a ride out through some beautiful bush and wetland to the beach. It was really the girls, Magali and Mirjams´ call and I did have the urge to make some excuse and sneak off for a surf while they did the horsey bit, I even dragged the surfboard all the way up from Brissy in blind faith that there’d be swell but there wasn’t. I would have missed out though. I haven’t been on a horse for nearly ten years. The last time was my first time riding give or take. I’d dated a girl who hailed from a family whose trade was horses going back five generations. They were an old school bunch to say the least and there was no faffing about teaching someone to ride a horse, you got on the beast and you did or died. I nearly died. Not least because I was lead over a jump in an arena within a few minutes of being on horseback for the very first time.

My horse in Noosa was named Teddy and I liked the look of him from the get go. He couldn’t have cared less. I took to calling him donkey because he had this head down slouch as he stood tethered to a post the likes you see on an old donkey that’s done a lifetimes work and is kind of past getting excited about anything. Donkey wasn’t past it though, far from it, in fact he’d been bread as a race horse, he was just a cavalier kind of guy. Suited me just fine. Kermit, Moose and Xena made up the rest of the posse and we didn’t spend long getting kitted out at Equathon before hitting the trail. Jess and Bre our guides were so relaxed and friendly there really was no drama. In fact I distinctly remember how precarious my perch felt back ten years ago when I first mounted up but this time around it felt perfectly natural. I reckon the years of sitting up on my surfboard while waiting for waves has given me perfect balance for horse riding.

The other horse experience I’ll never forget came shortly after my first jump. My ex had brothers who’s favourite past time was riding out on a harras of horses down the road and across some fields to a local river and wrestling on horseback mid stream. This particular day, another initiation for me it would seem, we trotted down the road headed for the river. But a tractor came up on our rear and this was essentially a single lane road. The tractor would have to wait for us to make our way and we were still maybe a kilometre from the field gates. My ex wouldn’t hear of holding up the tractor and called to me to take the horse into a canter, something I’d never done. I refused. There was the mother of all John Deeres bearing down on me, I was doing my best just to stay topside and the horse I was on was about fifteen metres tall, at least that’s how it seemed looking down. She turned back towards me, grabbed my horses’ reins and took off down the road towards the fields, forcing my horse to canter. I was being bounced around as I tried to find the horses rhythm and get in tune. I couldn’t. I felt like one of those rubber balls attached to a paddle by a piece of elastic, getting bounced up and then pulled back for more by the stirrups. I thought my head was going to get jostled off. Thankfully I made it to the field without coming off but it felt too close for comfort and I had no desire to ever try anything more then a walk on horseback ever again.

Equathon changed all that though, I made it to trot easily enough, it may not have been too stylish but nobody saw. I even made it to canter! It felt great. The wetlands were beautiful, the trees shoot straight up without many limbs breaking off to the sides and make a scene like some impressionist painting where there’s huge depth and perspective while at the same time the picture looks surreal and unnatural. The beach itself was empty save for a handful of 4×4 drivers looking for a good fishing spot or just testing their machines. I’ve watched the folks back home in Bettystown take their steeds for some exercise and a paddle as they pass my homestead since I was a child, so the chance to do it myself was fantastic although I kind of felt Donkey had the better part of the deal seeing as it was he who was doing the paddling.

I liked the ride out so much that I was going to use the fact that Magali had been sick and had to forfeit a spot on our ride to take her back the second day and have myself another go but alas the trail rides were booked out. I’m not surprised. Regardless my dream of being a modern day Zorro is at least alive again. All I need to do is practice slashing big G´s in people’s blouses.