A reflection, lightly salted
The Romance of Moreton Island
Some places are romantic. Moreton is romantic in the way a mate who's had three beers at a sunset is romantic: sincerely, loudly, and with sand on him.
The crossing
It starts on the barge. You, your beloved, a ute with a surfboard held on by optimism, and a man named Dazza who has been awake since 1998. The mainland shrinks. Your phone reception shrinks. Your worries, in our experience, remain roughly the same size but get a tan.
The dunes
At golden hour the dunes turn the colour of a very expensive candle. Couples run across them barefoot, holding hands, looking back over one shoulder like they're in an ad for something. They are not in an ad. They are just like that now. The island does it to you.
The wrecks
Fifteen ships were sunk on purpose to make a calm lagoon. Nothing says commitment like deliberately scuttling a vessel so someone else can have a nice swim. Isidro references this in most homilies. Some guests weep. Some snorkel.
The sand
It will be in the vows. It will be in the rings. It will be in the cake, and, on one documented occasion, in the marriage certificate, which the Registry accepted with a note. You will find sand from your wedding for the rest of your life. We consider this a feature.
The dolphins
Around sunset the dolphins turn up uninvited but respectfully. They do not RSVP, they do not bring a gift, and they leave before the speeches. Honestly? Role models.
The 4WD home
Tyres down to 16 psi, windows down, Krusty asleep in the tray. Somewhere between the lighthouse and the barge, it hits you: you're married, you're sunburnt, and you've never felt more rite.
The tide waits for no couple
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