Insta-Life. Inskip Point.

“I want your life.” A comment I’ve received a couple of times on Instagram. I always respond the same way. “You want my Instalife.” Because the Instalife looks like the business!! Sunsets, turtles and cute creative children sailing on azure seas. Yeah.

Last night I spent two hours on a rocking boat hold a torch in the dark as M dismantled the starboard motor; the water had stopped circulating through the engine – luckily there is computer magic within it that shuts the motor down once it attains a certain temperature, thus saving itself from burning out.

(Speaking of burning out… this was our view as we left Double Island Point…)

202/365 • bushfire smoke - looked epic and smeared out the sun for an hour or two...•
Controlled burn…

So we crossed the Wide Bay Bay with one motor less than we wanted, but it was quite flat and very straightforward. On arrival (it is an #instalife location, right on the outside edge of Inskip Point) I left M to hoist the motor out of the motor-well using a pulley he hung from the boom, and motored the Smalls over to the beach. The #instalife stopped there because we had two bags of rubbish that had to be disposed of before we head out to places where there are zero rubbish disposal opportunities.

It was hard to anchor the dinghy because there was a bit of a drop off into the water from the sand, the tide was heading out and there was sloshing from the Fraser Island Ferry and dickheads on jetskis. I wrestled with it for about 20 minutes, cursing the world and wishing for a house full of normalcy and whitegoods – then I had to leave one Small on the beach to make sure it didn’t float away (because that would have made it the third time) and take the other Small with me as I gaily carried two large kitchen bags full of mank into the bush and on to the road that runs down the middle of the point.

There were quite a few people camping. A dusting of tents and many, many caravans. DB and I walked and walked. I was pissed off and worried about the dinghy, imagining Small Z clinging to it with all her might as it was sucked away into the path of the car ferry. (Which was patently ridiculous because the tide was going AWAY from the ferry, but still…) We eventually reached a big National Parks sign which said all the normal things, including; “Take all your rubbish home with you.”

ARGHHHHHHHH! There was no one to seethe at but DB, so I seethed at her. “I KNEW IT!! National Parks don’t have bins. They just make you take all your rubbish home. GODDAMNIT.”

“Now mama,” counselled DB. “Don’t be so stressed. We should keep walking to the toilet block because there might be a bin there.”

“But there ARE NO BINS. And Zoe is back on the beach. This is so STUPID.”

We turned around to head back and I saw three people walking towards us. The last thing I wanted to do was speak to anyone, but I have learned a little from living with a Labrador.

“Hey,” I said casually, pretending I was not carrying two bulging rubbish bags, “Do you guys know if there are any bins around here?”

They gave me specific and clear directions on where the bins were. Exactly where DB had said – near the toilet block another 100 metres up the road. Still clutching a fetid bag in each hand, we walked back to the dinghy – which looked irritatingly fine, collected Small Z and motored to the point (where M had originally suggested I pull up and I had ignored him because it was right near some jetskiers).

Anchored again. Left Small Z again. Walked up through the campgrounds, mentally thanking the holy spirit that I didn’t have my own caravan there, near people who seemed to think it acceptable to leave their generators running while they went fishing off the beach. Hell is other people.

We found the bins – huge industrial ones, and I heaved the rubbish bags into it. My arms hurt. Trudged back to the beach, my mood lighter. Small Z was now in a towering temper, so I made her walk over a huge sand drawing of a penis and loudly pointed out the different parts of its anatomy.

“How do you know so much about penises?” she said. And then, presumably remembering her origins. “Oh.”

Headed back to the big boat, after wrestling the outboard into submission. M was still half in the motor well, the motor was still suspended in the air. There was a significant amount of grease, but minimum swearing – which I took as a good sign. Given that we would not run into any industrial sized bins in the near future, I coerced Small Z into going back ashore with me, taking an unwanted foam mattress that used to live on the top bunk.

We did the whole thing again. A part of me wanted to offer the mattress, folded in half and tied with string, to a tent dwelled. How good would that be? A very un-tentlike nights sleep on a cushiony spongey thing, that you could dispose of before you packed up and drove away. But I looked at the mattress and it did look a little sad and decrepit. Someone might be revolted if I offered it to them. Small Z and I put it in the bin and bade it farewell.

Anchored off Inskip Point.
On our way back to Foamy. Zoe made the seagull fly for the photo.

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