The desert could have killed us easily but it didn’t. It was good to us mostly. We stayed at a cool little house in a tiny fishing town, owned by a lady who discovered whale vomit on the beach ten years ago, just a big clump of it, like a basketball, but a rank and odorous basketball because it was still whale vomit. It’s called ambergris and it’s worth loads of money because it is, or at least it once was, used to make fine expensive perfumes. Ironically. This woman sold her ambergris to Gucci and got minted in what must be the most unlikely path to riches ever taken. Maybe she didn’t sell it to Gucci actually, but to someone like that, and saying Gucci makes the story better. The house had cool ornaments in the gardens, and we saw chemtrails. Look them up.

Craig lost the plot and went desert loony after day three. He was dancing and making music by rattling a stone in a bottle.

We would wake semi-early, have a coffee and Vegemite on toast, pack the car and head to our little zone around 30 minutes away. It was cold at night and really hot in the day and a long walk from the carpark to the waves, with little flies that bite, and cool lizards with blue tongues who were feisty and tried to bite the wheels of our cars. They were desert crazy like Craig. We never tried to run any over but they were looking for trouble.

The spots were miniature studios with amazing backdrops and dark water and the swell was pretty good the whole time. We were lucky it wasn’t massive. We’d surf twice a day for around three hours each session, eating muesli bars if we stayed at the beach or pub meals back in town.

Mitch and Craig are going to buy land out there together, grow old and raise pet lizards. They are. Land’s cheap out there.