Immersion

I finished Charlie's shrug in plenty of time to hand out with the rest of the presents (including Ruby's shrug which she is not wearing in the photo below; nor was the iPad one of the gifts in my suitcase) which were in the luggage which was finally recovered.

With the contradictory information and run-around, I'm shocked that they actually found ours; even moreso that this is not uncommon.

The afternoon of the day we arrived, and the next day, I was assured that the suitcases would arrive on the following day's flight (on some airline or another) into Sydney. On the second day they got very excited about a bag they'd found in San Francisco with some catalogue in the front pocket and someone else's name on the tags.

Not ours.

At about 10:30 that night, a man showed up with a van with a bag that was not ours. It was the bag with the catalogue in the front pocket, and the luggage tag with someone else's name.

The next morning we received a phone-call with the exciting news that the suitcases had arrived in Sydney and would arrive in Cairns at four o'clock, and be in Port Douglas by five or six. They weren't here by seven, so I called, only to be told that it would arrive on the last flight of the day (at around ten-thirty), and would be delivered the following morning, so we decided that more clothes shopping was in order, but the shops were all closed.

So much for that.

The suitcases arrived about an hour later.

Remember yesterday's photos of the path to the beach? Late night night we thought it might be fun to take a walk along the beach, so we set off: one of my brothers, my two sisters-in-law, my mother, my twenty-year-old daughter and my eighteen-year-old son, and me.

It was a fascinating study of different reactions to adversity.

The path has no lights.

The beach has no lights, except way off to the left, where the safe swimming zone (with nets to keep out jelly-fish) is lit. The path has no lights either, and once you step onto the beach, the path is invisible unless you're right there and shine a light directly at the break in the trees.

So off we set, along the pitch-black path, onto a beach illuminated by neither moon nor stars.

We walked towards the net, wetting our toes only in the safe zone, none ready to play Russian Roulette with the possibility of deadly poisonous jelly-fish, where a discussion ensued: to cut straight across to the road and take a circuitous route home, or back-track along the beach to the path we took to get here.

As my father used to say, bullshit baffles brains, so we started back along the beach.

Monique had counted her steps to the nets, but got involved in a conversation with Eva at around Step 675 on the way back, so was of minimal use. Larry insisted he could find it again, but couldn't (two or three times).

My mother planned seventy-five fail-safe ways of getting back not via the path, and was anxious that we were following none of them. My kids fretted and frowned at the stupidity of it all, the waste of time, and the rest of us laughed and laughed because we're on vacation and we knew where we were (more or less) and we knew a way to get back (if not the fastest way), and what did it matter if the worst case scenario played out and we had to stay on the beach until sunrise to find our way off?

Then Larry hauled out his GPS, started up the flashlight app on his phone, and we were home quite quickly.

In the morning we went to Mossman Gorge, a river in the Daintree National Park with rock pools and little rapids with fabulous swimming.

It was stinking hot, and we weren't the only people, but it wasn't wall-to-wall bodies, always a plus.

The water was refreshingly cold but not freezing, sweet and fresh. The current was strong in places, so when you jumped off the rocks into the white froth (scary but fun), you'd be carried thirty feet before having a hope of reaching one of the banks, unless you got caught in the swirl that reversed direction.

In the US, there would either be "Danger!!! No Swimming!!!" signs posted everywhere, or else both banks would have been built up with hand-rails and steps leading into the river, life-guards posted and too-dangerous areas fenced off. You'd have to pay admission and there would be changing rooms and concession stands.

Here there's just a river in a rainforest.

We ate in Daintree and I wish I hadn't messed up this photo of the burger menu, as it shows items unlikely to be found at a small-town (population: 78) restaurant in many places: Road Kill Burger (today was unfortunately only chicken, how dull), Burra[mundi] Burger and Crocodile Burger. (I had the crocodile. Yummy).

By this time the little kids were tired and went home with a couple of the adults; the rest of us took a drive to Cape Tribulation Beach.

We stopped to take pictures at a lookout point (I think it was before the ferry). It took about an hour to get to Cape Tribulation.

The path to the beach had trees with strangler figs.

Also spiralling vines spanning the underside of the canopy.

One end of the beach had mangroves.

Unfortunately this beach had no nets, so there was no dipping of toes.

There was lots of driving through gorgeously lush countryside, which gave me plenty of knitting time; in spite of having finished Julien's sweater before leaving Chicago, the sleeves needed redoing, as they were cutting off circulation to his hands, even as he insisted he liked them that way, though could I please make the neck a a bit bigger as he was having trouble getting it off?