"Are you kidding?" I responded incredulously as I continued to snap pictures of the beach that stretched in front of us farther than my eye could see.
Growing up far from the mountains and even farther from the sea, I'm usually enthralled by the sight of any peak and most large bodies of water, fresh or salty. However, the allure of Australia's beaches outweighs most.
At that moment, my sister, her roommate Ed, his friend and I were overlooking a sea that varied in shades of blues, teals and turquoises I hadn't seen before and couldn't describe. I could only murmur, "it's beauuuuutiful." And with that, I snapped more pictures from our cliff outcrop that offered sweeping views of the beach. It was New Year's Eve and a perfect summer day to get a nice tan, possibly a burn with the new intensity of pale I'd reached in China, and if I was feeling brave, which was doubtful, a dip in the frigid water. A map will show you that Melbourne is Australia's largest "down under" city and its surrounding water is the last to warm.
Still it was NYE, usually I'd just be freezing in the cold chilled air of the Midwest, while counting down the hours until it was socially acceptable to start drinking for the new year. This year, I was going to drink a cold beer on the beach, while it and I both sweated in the heat.
"This is Australia," the boys chirped back nonchalantly.
Natives.
Being the world's largest island, Australia has few competitors on total miles of beaches, or rather kilometers, as most of the world measures. From what I saw, Australia truly has some of the best in the world, save for Thailand. I've never seen any place more naturally beautiful, sorry Australia.
However, what I didn't add to their curiosity about America's fascination with Australia and its beaches is why. While they are gorgeous, the same can be said about the presumed beach patrons that are a large part of the obsession, if you want to call it that. Namely, it's the boys, which according to American myth are all surfers and all are more attractive than could be genetically true. Baywatch, Down Under, on steroids. If I had to boil it down. The stereotype is as strong as the one that all Australians love Foster's Beer. How it happened, I'll never know.
Unfortunately, this wasn't evident in Sorrento, but it does magically exist farther north, according to my sister and friend Lauren, a fellow Aussie lover as well.
(Need I say more? Except, actually, I will. It'll come later in a blog post about where this was taken--aptly named Surfer's Paradise, or anyone's paradise, really.)
Regardless, after the beer, we bolted to the beach. With both of us exhausted from full-on work schedules and holidays separated from family, Ingrid and I mildly distracted our minds with beach literature as we squished the hot sand between our toes. When life is good, sometimes it's devilishly good, it almost feels sinful.
I napped in the sun, while Ingrid splashed in the waves with Ed and his friend. I stayed far from the surf; I hate cold water with a vengeance and always will, I'm sure of it. Not that it mattered to Ingrid and Ed, nor did my screams of protests echoing down the beach, as they also carried me off into the cold surf and dumped me in. "Noooooooooooo!" Nope, I certainly wasn't going to forget Sorrento Beach now.
Before the sun dipped below the blue edge of the sea, Ed drove Ingrid and I back to the train. We needed to get back to the city for the night. Besides being NYE and wanting to celebrate it with proper dresses and bubbly in the city, we had an early flight to catch out of the Melbourne airport to see more of Australia's vast coastline.
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