"Dude, I have something really important to talk to you about, call me back as soon as you get this." After listening to the most cryptic message of her life, Devon called Mahea back in a frenzy of concern. Was she hurt? Did she have cancer? Each ring was an eternity. Finally, she picked up. "Are you alright? What's going on?" "I think you should drop out of school and we should move to Australia."
Thus began our transient immigration to Australia, no plans and no hesitations. Four months and a string of odd jobs later it was January 2007 and we found ourselves on the Gold Coast where there was sun, perfect waves and men that looked as if they were hand picked by Aphrodite herself; the isle of Eden at last! Next step: obtain transportation. After a toilsome series of arduous bus rides and dead-end phone calls, we found Clint. Clint was an '89 Nissan Vanette complete with bed in the back and an engine that maxed out at 60 km/h costing a measly 500 bones. At least he had a rockin stereo system. The next six months were a blur of perfect waves and epic parties. We went from Noosa to Ulladulla living off the kindness of strangers. We were poor. Dirt poor. There was a solid month that was spent living off a stolen honesty box full of avocados. And if you were one of the many that donated to the girl holding a sign reading "please donate money for car parts" at the Suffolk Park gas station during the Byron Blues and Roots Festival, we are forever in your debt. But getting out of a DUI, misplacing a passport, gambling and losing Mahea's last ten dollars at Conrad Jupiter's with Taj Burrow (though I doubt he remembers us...) all pale in comparison to the day that Stab found us.
One bleary morning after a loose night in Noosa Heads, we found ourselves in the house of some friends who were over for the annual Noosa Longboard Festival. Mahea crawled into the bathroom and stumbled upon some pages of a magazine littering the ground that were adorned with the face of our pal, Al Knost. The interview was the best we had ever read. Like two smackies looking for their hidden fix, we ransacked the house piecing the rest of the magazine together. What happened next was pure love and can only be most accurately described as an orgasm of the eyes; we read that bitch from cover to upside-down cover.
From then on every house, coffee shop and news stand was free game. If there was an issue of Stab in sight, we would greedily shove it down our pants, run back to our den of iniquity (as the back of the van came to be known) and pour over every page with a fine-toothed comb devouring every picture and witty remark.
Eventually, the devastating day came when we had to leave God's Country. It was the worst day of our entire lives. When we landed back in smoggy California, all that awaited us were tears and a big black hole of depression. We miss the people; they are still the most-open-hearted-brimming-with-kindness-no-bullshit people we have ever met, and we've been to our fair share of countries. They work to live not live to work and know how to have a fucking great time. We miss the land; the way that you can get in your car and easily escape the stifling rat race of the concrete jungle. We miss the surf conditions; swell consistency as well as unpopulated line-ups haunt our dreams nightly. Australia is more our home than America ever will be and every day we sit and scheme on how we can get back and stay forever. The only thing that has kept us going is the stream of Ozzies that has been constant since the day we left. It's like we're our own Australian hostel, except we get paid in Tim Tams and Coles Mint Slices.
So help us escape the Orange County bubble where everyone is plastic and shallow and chemically tanned! And mentors, just so you know, we don't give a fuck about paying for our own plane tickets...
We'll Swim There If We Have To...
"Dude, I have something really important to talk to you about, call me back as soon as you get this." After listening to the most cryptic message of her life, Devon called Mahea back in a frenzy of concern. Was she hurt? Did she have cancer? Each ring was an eternity. Finally, she picked up.
"Are you alright? What's going on?"
"I think you should drop out of school and we should move to Australia."
Thus began our transient immigration to Australia, no plans and no hesitations. Four months and a string of odd jobs later it was January 2007 and we found ourselves on the Gold Coast where there was sun, perfect waves and men that looked as if they were hand picked by Aphrodite herself; the isle of Eden at last! Next step: obtain transportation. After a toilsome series of arduous bus rides and dead-end phone calls, we found Clint. Clint was an '89 Nissan Vanette complete with bed in the back and an engine that maxed out at 60 km/h costing a measly 500 bones. At least he had a rockin stereo system. The next six months were a blur of perfect waves and epic parties. We went from Noosa to Ulladulla living off the kindness of strangers. We were poor. Dirt poor. There was a solid month that was spent living off a stolen honesty box full of avocados. And if you were one of the many that donated to the girl holding a sign reading "please donate money for car parts" at the Suffolk Park gas station during the Byron Blues and Roots Festival, we are forever in your debt. But getting out of a DUI, misplacing a passport, gambling and losing Mahea's last ten dollars at Conrad Jupiter's with Taj Burrow (though I doubt he remembers us...) all pale in comparison to the day that Stab found us.
One bleary morning after a loose night in Noosa Heads, we found ourselves in the house of some friends who were over for the annual Noosa Longboard Festival. Mahea crawled into the bathroom and stumbled upon some pages of a magazine littering the ground that were adorned with the face of our pal, Al Knost. The interview was the best we had ever read. Like two smackies looking for their hidden fix, we ransacked the house piecing the rest of the magazine together. What happened next was pure love and can only be most accurately described as an orgasm of the eyes; we read that bitch from cover to upside-down cover.
From then on every house, coffee shop and news stand was free game. If there was an issue of Stab in sight, we would greedily shove it down our pants, run back to our den of iniquity (as the back of the van came to be known) and pour over every page with a fine-toothed comb devouring every picture and witty remark.
Eventually, the devastating day came when we had to leave God's Country. It was the worst day of our entire lives. When we landed back in smoggy California, all that awaited us were tears and a big black hole of depression. We miss the people; they are still the most-open-hearted-brimming-with-kindness-no-bullshit people we have ever met, and we've been to our fair share of countries. They work to live not live to work and know how to have a fucking great time. We miss the land; the way that you can get in your car and easily escape the stifling rat race of the concrete jungle. We miss the surf conditions; swell consistency as well as unpopulated line-ups haunt our dreams nightly. Australia is more our home than America ever will be and every day we sit and scheme on how we can get back and stay forever. The only thing that has kept us going is the stream of Ozzies that has been constant since the day we left. It's like we're our own Australian hostel, except we get paid in Tim Tams and Coles Mint Slices.
So help us escape the Orange County bubble where everyone is plastic and shallow and chemically tanned! And mentors, just so you know, we don't give a fuck about paying for our own plane tickets...
Vote Here
7
by The Seppos
April 24, 2009