A girl’s weekend in Noosa

The weather was perfect. Sunny yet not too hot. The water was a sparkling turquoise which beckoned me. I stripped off my clothes and stood there in my swimmers, on the sand, taking in deep breaths of the salty air.

“Jesus woman…. FLAP! FLAP!” my friend hissed at me.

So it would seem that one part of my anatomy was keener than the rest of me to have the first swim of the season.

Having tucked the offending labia majora back into safety, I was ready. My body is not tidy nor will it ever be and I am down with that.

It takes perfect conditions for me to take to the ocean. It must be sunny and the water must be free from fest. And by fest I mean rubbish, seaweed and the like. There must be no killer dumping waves or rips that could see you end up in New Zealand.  There must be at least two lifesavers that look very fit and alert in my direct line of sight. This is because of the great dumping drama of the summer of 2014 at Bilgola Beach which saw my face being dragged across the bottom of the ocean, saving me at least six months of micro-dermabrasion treatments.

92% of my readers are Australian so most of you will know about swimming in the ocean. When you were a kid, nothing frightened you. You could spend all day ducking waves and getting slammed by other kids on boogie boards. Occasionally your Mum would scream at you to come in and have a rest. You would get burnt to a crisp because sunscreen was crap back in the day. Fifteen plus? Pffft. And what the hell is a rashie?

But as you get older you learn about fear and danger, and up there in the top ten things to fear is the ocean. Perhaps it is even in the top five.

So there I was, along with two girlfriends. We had done the sensible thing and had escaped the southern states and ended up in the Prue and Trude region known as Noosa. Or NOOOSHAA.

Oh Noosa! Could you be any more beautiful?

But back to our swim. The water was of perfect temperature so it was straight in. Mrs Goodman and myself are of sturdy potato carrying peasant farming stock, so we strode through the waves with the strength and determination of an ox, whereas our fellow traveller Mrs Spark, is built like Tinkerbell and was bashed around a fair bit, at one stage showing her left breast to the other swimmers as she got dumped. The trick to surviving a swim at the beach is to get beyond the break where you can just glide over the swell with the greatest of ease. The other tip is to make sure you are not the Shark Bait, i.e. that there are a few other punters out further than you are so if a shark does get hungry they are more likely to get eaten than you are.

Hanging out the back of the break is a glorious thing, until a set comes in that totally fucks you over as you realise that you are in the exact point of impact.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!” I would yell before Mrs. Goodman would grab my hand and yell “GO UNDER!” and so we would go under. Once we would emerge, we would look back only to find that Mrs. Spark, sans top again, would emerge from the depths about 20 metres away, looking like she had sprung from a tumble dryer.

Having had our fun, the next challenge was to negotiate how to get back to shore without getting pummelled. It was indeed a gamble. Should you take a chance because things had seemed to had settled down? Or was the ocean planning to really fuck you up? Nature is a tricky goddess, but eventually the three of us climbed up the beach and collapsed onto our towels.

“Dude…. flap!”

Must get new swimmers.

Bwwwhahahhahaaha! Flapping FREE!

THE DEETS

We booked a great deal at Last Minute

We stayed at Bella Casa

We ate all the things but can recommend Betty’s Burgers,  Locale,  Bistro C, Miss Moneypennys, El Capitano

We got our airport transfers from John. Cheap and entertaining. Book by calling him on 0433 102 062

When is the last time you had a girls weekend away?

Where did you go?

Have you had your first swim of the season yet?