Somewhere along the Sunshine Coast. An Airbnb thrown together haphazardly, with its thin walls and IKEA ware. It didn’t matter, the beach was a barefoot away, the sun was hot, and there were minimal blue jellies lying in wait of the space between naked toes.
A Dog Called Quest was being less vampiric these lazy days. He feared the sun, unlike all other cattle dogs united across the nation. Just a pup though, we’d say, until he attacked our ankles in protest of any sand hikes or wave-dipping. How could he be our child, we’d say, as we constantly chased that sun and rolled around those beaches. His name is Quest, he’ll come around with age, we’d say.
He much preferred the Ute, Quest did, driving up and down the coast in search of adventure, rather than being directly injected into it. Bundaberg in particular held his fancy, until he had to get out of the truck. Then upon that sacred distillery’s lawn, he would poop his best poop and proudly chase our ankles yet again.
Bundaberg is a wonderfully terrible rum. Unlike those noble South American selects with their violent heritage, this distant cousin tastes of the volcanic soil in an equally treacherous way. That roastiest of red dust, like ancient pigment smeared upon aboriginals’ skin, breeds cane crop like no other. So much sugar, they’d told us, that the country was killing itself, or rather, the gangsters that held that industry were killing the country.
They, some locals we met at a camp on Mudjimba beach, told us many stories of many problems with Queensland as a whole, sugar aside. Corruption, environmental atrocities, class warfare. We sat night after night with this hairy ilk, and it didn’t occur to me until the very last happy hour we shared, that the less vocal of them was wearing very nice bracelets.
Handcuffs. Filed at the wrist to break free until a better tool was procured to finish the job.
They spoke of living off the grid. They knew where to find squid, how to cut coconuts the right way. They liked classic rock and fishing, the cheapest beer, and when we shared anything at all with them in exchange for stories.
On these days, Quest would attack coconuts, we would hunt sunsets, tacos, and cautiously engage escaped convicts. The Queen’s land.