The coast has been magnificent this week. It's been warm, so everyone is out with a smile on their faces. We walked the coast path to Bells Beach and saw four whales a-spouting, and a pod of six dolphins swim along the cliffs below as if keeping us company. Yesterday my girlfriend and I surfed Drainos for four hours - the water was silky smooth, I didn't need boots nor gloves, and we said merry hellos to a seal. I'm still in motion now, my body rocking in the water, though I'm sitting at a Friday desk earning some dollar. I can still see the morning sky, alit with tangerine and blue, the clouds like cobalt tornadoes and mama dog boobs hanging down to the wet horizon.

Though the weather has been splendiferously spiffing, there is a niggling worry about the lack of rain. Even when it comes, on this Friday where I'm writing, it's not enough to soak the ground. That's south west Victoria for you. There's wet years and dry years, and always a fear of drought. Bring the storms. Three days of 20 degrees is enough to warm the bones.

And my bones are alright, despite the hours in the cold water. Weeks of doing squats is paying off. Sometimes you drop off the top of the wave and bend your knees to help deal with how steep it is, or flick off the back of the wave before it's too shallow and you land on the reef. Thankyou, body, for enabling me to do this. I hoot. There are whales on the horizon. A mama whale and her calf. Fuck me, if there's whales in the world, it's a good world.

We're both pumped with the session. I love my board so much. Despite being smashed by cavalier bag handlers courtesy of Etihad (f&^&%&&&(kers), she still glides and slides. I love how boards have different characters. My bestie is riding a board her Dad shaped in the '70's. He was a bit of a local celebrity in a hippie renegade kinda way. If you knew you knew. She gets people asking about her board all the time. No one rides boards like this anymore. I admire the sun lighting up her chin hairs. We don't do badly for two surfer girls in their early '50s.

At home Mum's made porridge with strawberries and dried cranberries with oat milk. It's delicious. It's nice being home, despite the circumstances. This morning though, it's a little rough. Dad told her upon waking that he had had enough. He was giving up. There was no point. His quality of life is such that he can't get out of the house, and barely can move from bedroom to loungeroom to dining room. This hits Mum hard. She's resilient, and strong, and rational, but how can one be rational and stoic when one is losing the love of her life?

I think of Dad going surfing and seeing whales and rainbows and dolphins. I think of Dad turning to bones. I swallow strawberries and tears.