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There is something wonderful about camping and mornings.
How sweet is it to wake early, to the sound of bird calls. The darkness lifts and the sky changes from grey to purple, to pink and blue. I lay in my sleeping bag, looking up at the ceiling of the tent. The eucalyptus canopy overhead played shadows across the canvas. As well as the bird songs, I can hear the waves, washing rhythmically onto the sand. There’s no footsteps, no 4WDs on the beach, no chatter from the campsite. It’s as though this time of day is a secret, shared only with those of us awake early enough and the world is speaking in whispers.
Sometimes, I walk down to beach to see the sunrise. When we camp in winter, the breeze is so cold it makes my eyes water. It’s like a dunk in a cold pool; refreshing, invigorating. I follow the footprints my husband leaves ahead of me, striding out across the sand. There’s only a few people awake at this time of morning; a couple sitting in camp chairs on the beach, drinking coffee. That’s the life. Finally, the sun makes its appearance over the horizon, drenching everything in a soft orange glow. This is my favourite time of day. In the golden light, crabs are digging furiously, covering the beach in sprays of tiny perfectly rolled sand balls. Pelicans waddle along the water line, watching for bait fish.
Other mornings, I don’t leave camp. I make a cup of coffee and sit, facing the sun and inhaling the scent of salt, camp fires and earthy scrub. There’s a sort of magic in that dappled sunlight, filtering through the leafy canopy. I feel at peace. I am grounded, where I should be in that exact moment. It’s a satisfying and overwhelming sense of belonging. Gradually, the campsites around me come alive with a similar chorus; tents unzipping and kettles whistling. Fishing rods are rigged and readied. Sunscreen and mozzie spray, “eau de camping”. The sound of bacon sizzling on hot plates rises above the sound of waves. The day has begun.
