16,861.1 km to belfast
Christmas Day. I went down at six, before the backpackers. By the time I walked back past at ten, the whole beach was Santa hats and Irish accents and eskies, and a lad from Galway was trying to get his mates into the pool with a speech.
Forty lengths. 249.9 km. Lachie moved the pin at lunch. I'm near a town called Coolah, which none of us had heard of. Claire looked it up and it has a pub.
Prawns, ham, the pavlova that cracks every year. Lachie got a drone and flew it into the jacaranda.
The card should have got there. The lady at the post office said ten days, and it's been five weeks.
Kirra was coming down the steps as I came up, tinsel round her cap, back in the water for summer like the bluebottles. She asked if I'd heard anything. I said not yet. She said, "It's Christmas, the post's terrible." Kind girl. It isn't five weeks terrible.