First things first. Sarah Mitus has not been formally introduced, but she deserves that introduction. So here’s a little Sarah Mitus synopsis: we call Sarah by her last name, “Mitus,” mostly because it’s an awesome last name that we feel deserves first name usage. And it fits, because Aussies shorten every word: afternoon = “arvo,” breakfast = “brekky,” “Brisbane = “brizzy.” So, after two months together, Mitus now answers to “Mito,” “Smito,” Shmito” and so on. Shmito is my personal favorite so from here on that’s how we’ll refer to her.
I met nineteen-year-old Shmito at the airport newsstand back in January. “Cosmo or Glamour?” Jorie asked her and her friend Caroline. “Cosmo for sure,” they replied. We were friends from there on.
Shmito is from western Massachusetts, but she is the farthest thing from a Mass-hole. The girl’s favorite response is, “I’m down for whatever,” which explains why 1) she is a great person to travel with and 2) why she’s become one of my dearest friends so quickly. She’s easygoing. She mostly smiles and laughs, but ask her about marketing and she’ll show you her wits. She talks admiringly about her family, especially her dad, and worries that she won’t find a guy as great as him. So, plain and simple, Shmito was a wonderful addition to the spring break adventure.
Our trip featured many beautiful locales and exciting adventures. Here are the highlights:
DRIVING: None of us had ever driven on the left side of the road, so this was a recipe for some fun. Additionally, Brooke and I haven’t owned cars in over two years, and I only drive during the summer. In our rented Hyundai we maneuvered the streets of Coolangatta onto the Pacific Highway. (Yay for another Pacific Highway!) It took all four of us to make a lane change, and that lane change was often only signaled by turning on our windshield wipers instead of our blinker. Wipers. Blinkers. Same difference.
By far the funniest part of our driving experience was the four-hour drive turned six-and-a-half-hour drive to Fraser Island. Brooke’s Australian ex-boyfriend (who’s house we stayed in on the Gold Coast) had provided us with directions to get around the Gold Coast. Those directions had satisfied all our needs—groceries, secluded beaches, nightlife—until Tuesday morning, when, like fools, we didn’t read the fine print. After three and half hours of following Morgan’s directions to a tee, we did indeed arrive at Cooloola Way, just where our directions intended for us to be. The catch is that Cooloola Way has a giant sign at its conception warning drivers that “Cooloola Way is 30 kilometers of sand and gravel track connecting to Rainbow Beach Road…4-wheel drive vehicles only.” We had failed to read that the directions were guiding us to where Morgan took his 4-wheel drive before putting it on a barge to Fraser Island. The Hyundai was closer to a go-cart than a jeep and with no town in sight we had no choice but to detour to Rainbow Beach, where we stopped at a backpacker’s lodge. The look on the woman’s face when I told her we were looking for Hervey Bay said it all. Eyes wide and eyebrows raised, she told us were two hours south of our destination.
This little bump in the road, if you will, did have an upside. First, my appreciation for my travel companions grew as we each chose to laugh at our own mistake, pitch in on gas and get back on the road. Someone suggested road games to pass the extra hours. There’s nothing more valuable on a road trip in a foreign country than easygoing travel partners. The other upside of this slip up was the night sky on the ferry ride to the island. (We had planned on taking the 4 p.m. ferry, and ended up on the 7 p.m. ferry thanks to our detour.) On the open ocean in the absence of city lights, the stars stretched to the horizon. I had never seen so many stars at once, and I got that feeling that you read about in books. You feel small, but not insignificant. It was the closest thing I’ve had to a religious experience. We continued our star gazing on the deck of our condo on Fraser Island. Two shooting stars, a beer and countless mosquito bites later, the irritation of the long car drive was long forgotten.
WILDLIFE: What you read is true. Australia is filled with weird and dangerous wildlife. I came knowing they have most of the world’s most poisonous snakes, lots of venomous spiders and, obviously, sharks too. But because I grew up swimming just on the other side of the Pacific, I wasn’t intimidated to swim here, even after hearing of the first two shark attacks in Sydney Harbour, in which both people were swimming at dusk, aka dinner time for sharks. Turquoise from afar but clear up close with rolling waves, I can’t refuse the ocean’s invitation. So on a perfect afternoon at Dreamtime Beach on the Gold Coast, I encouraged the group, “let’s swim out further.” As we did, we got a lot of looks from the surfers. At first I thought we had swam into their surf spot, but we were clearly outside their territory. Then we thought they probably just thought we were cute. Wrong again. The next night we told our friend Lara, who was born in Oz, moved to the U.S. and now goes to school on the Gold Coast, about our swimming adventure. Her jaw dropped.
“You swam there! I would never swim there! There are sharks. I never go past my knees at that beach.”
Dumb American girls. No wonder those boys were staring as I floated on my back like a seal over the waves. They knew who was shark bate.
The next day we ventured the 50 kilometers to Byron Bay, which is considered a town but in actuality just an intersection of three streets lined with cafes and shops on the southern end of the Gold Coast. We drove to the lighthouse on top of the hill to check the view and see Australia’s most easterly point. From the mountain we saw sharks feeding on a school of fish only about 100 feet off the coast, giving weight to Lara’s comment that there are indeed sharks and they aren’t that far out. A pod of dolphins swam by. A stingray probably 5 feet wide hovered in the waves. Sea turtles drifted by. This was the most natural wildlife exhibit I had ever seen, all within a 500-foot stretch of coast.
While the shark feeding was unexpected and fascinating, Wednesday morning’s surprise was the most memorable of the trip in terms of wildlife. We woke early to start our tour of Fraser Island. Sleep still in my eyes (and definitely in my hair), I walked slowly to the couch to put on my shoes, but I stopped in my tracks at the site of the hairy Huntman’s spider the size of my palm caught between our window screen and glass. (Taylor, you would have passed out.) The woman who answered our call to the front desk assured us that it was non-venomous and would just keep the other bugs out, so we let B.F.G, as we named him, stay where he was. But when we returned nine hours later, B.F.G. wasn’t lookin’ so hot, so Ashley came up to remove him.
“Woah, he IS big,” Ashley remarked. Yes, Ashley he is. Thank you for noticing. That at least made us a feel a little better about our level of toughness.
WARREN: Because of the awesome exchange rate we were able to plan a private tour of Fraser Island, which is great because otherwise you have to either rent a 4-wheel drive jeep on your own and then operate it through the sand roads of the island or join a 40 person tour bus—not our scene. So Warren, a fifty something off-roading expert and native Australian handled the wheel driving us to Fraser’s best lakes and creeks to cool our cores. But in the meantime, we got to know him and vice versa. Warren had two sons and had been happily married to his wife for over 25 years. He loved his job, meeting people from around the world, sharing his knowledge of the island with them. He read “Wildlife of Greater Brisbane” in the shade as we swam in Lake McKenzie. This was Warren’s best advice.
“People of my generation did it all wrong. We hurried into jobs, got married, bought a house and had kids. We planned to travel later in life. Problem is later in life you can’t walk like you used to. So, girls, travel now. Don’t get married until at least 28. Plenty of time for guys.”
Amen, Warren. Amen. After a perfect day, we bid Warren goodbye.
“Thank you for showing us such a great time! Have a nice evening Warren!” I called.
“Have a nice life. And remember! Don’t get married until 28.”
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When the last Corona had been drunk and our suitcases offered nothing more than sand covered shorts and tanks, our seven-day spring break adventure came to a close. It flew by too quickly but was just enough to rejuvenate us for the next half of our semester here. And Brookie went back to New York revitalized as well, but not before a tear-filled goodbye from me. I’ll never forget the fun of the last two weeks. Jee Jee Dub ’09!!
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