Your typical Port Campbell morning

I wonder why I picked this morning of all mornings to finally get off my arse and do a bit of early morning exercise before I started studying for the day. I’d probably have to thank a friend of mine stuck in the confines of Melbourne, unable to leave their home. They've got hope now, though; Thursday's their day out. No doubt a few slabs will be sunk over that following weekend, a few sickos will be taken on Monday. I’d love to get back up there and share a few with all my mates that I haven’t seen in so long.

Instead of attempting to have a run in the darkened morning streets, I chose to have an ergo session instead down at the surf club. I have a love-hate relationship with that machine; it's undoubtedly an excellent exercise machine, but goddamn, do I feel like shit afterwards. Nothing truly hurts more than forcing every last inch of energy out of your body over 2ks, trying to get under that 7-minute mark. It remains an elusive goal for me even after rowing for several years now, but one that I can always aim for. Today, however, is all about technique. I focus on breaking the stroke down into its three components: legs, then body, then arms. Then reverse for the recovery: arms, body, legs. Keep your core engaged, sit up straight, sit up strong. Try and keep your sole on the plate in the recovery; work on hamstring strength. Slow the arms. I repeat all these little instructions mentally, ensuring that I keep myself accountable and not become complacent in any stroke.

As the timer hit zero, the machine stopped recording. Just short of 13 and a half kilometres, sitting at a split of 2:13.6. Not bad for an hour’s work of a consistent pace, broken up into little pyramids and drills to keep me entertained. Still, a lot of work needed to be put in to reach that next level of becoming a fitter and more efficient rower. Undoing the foot chocks, I roll off the machine, laying on my back on the floor, the flywheel inside slowly coming to a rest. The orchestral fanfare of the ABC’s 6am news bulletin reaches its swansong, and the presenter gives the morning news. I pick up a few headlines as I go for my water bottle, placed just behind the footplate. I just lay there, breathing in and out, wiping the sweat off my brow. I slowly rise back up onto my feet, a hit of runner's high surging through my body.

It wasn’t the best view available, the glass in need of a good cleaning. I could just make out the flashing marker from the pier. Taking a large gulp of water, I just stand there, feeling the sweat roll down my back. I touch the back of my singlet, drenched, as was the norm after any amount of cardio, it seemed. The announcer finishes his bulletin with the time: 6:05am. It was still dark, but it wouldn’t be too long before the sun rose. Half an hour, maybe more? I think to myself.

It's been a hot minute since I've seen the sunrise from anywhere other than the warmth and familiarity of my bed. As the cheeky tone of Sammy J projected itself from the radio's speakers for the second half-hour of his morning show, I make up my mind: I want to see the sunrise from the best spot in town.

Grabbing my hoodie and throwing it on, I exited the gym. I make my way towards the hangar bay, passing the coat hangers adorned with rashies and lifejackets, turning right to the exit. I opened the door, greeted with a slight onshore breeze, nothing compared to what southwest Victorians are climatised to, but I was glad to throw my jumper on. It was still dark, but I could just see the outlines of the typical Port Campbell swell: small sets, not going any higher than the average person’s knee. I can smell the salt coming off the ocean, a familiar smell that Melbourne and Port Philip simply can't match. I can hear a slight crashing sound as the lip made contact with the wet sand, the saltwater battling its way up the beach with its momentum, the sound of sea expansion fading away before being put on rewind as it got sucked back to whence it came. I followed the concrete around the club, my footsteps touching the wet ground from an early rain that had died off, viewing the darkened foreshore and the shadowy outline of the Norfolk pines at the other end of the beach. The town is still undisturbed in its slumber. I follow the path around the front of the surf club, heading toward where Cairns Street ends and Tregea Street begins, turning left onto the new path and towards the suspension bridge.

The suspension bridge was a solid architectural structure, seemingly undisturbed by the light onshore. It felt nice to have a little bit of stability in my step while going over the bridge. Running on a wooden bridge suspended by cables with five or six other guys caused shockwaves that you could feel right up to your quads. The rain had left a little bit of residue on the wooden planks, but not enough for it to be slippery. The sand underneath the bridge had turned to a heavier shade of gold in the earlier drizzle. The river kept a consistent stream towards the northeastern bend of the creek.

I crossed the bridge and began the trek up the staircase. After a full hour of leg drives, climbing up 193 flights of stairs wasn’t the most exciting prospect in the world, but it would be worth it for the view I would get. Some of the surrounding flora had grown between the steps, giving the illusion that the structure had been here for a while. I make my way along the western headland, the steps winding up towards the beginning of the Two Mile track.

As I reach the top platform, I check the time on my phone. 6:15. Roughly another 15 minutes to sunrise. I take a seat on the bench behind me and plan the day ahead mentally. Got a few essays to slowly chip away at, so I’ll break my time into even sections to get stuff done. It’s too early to grab a coffee in town, Grassroots doesn’t open until half past 8, so I’ll settle with a cup of instant with breakfast.

Time must have gone for a quick sprint while I was in my thoughts because I felt a warm, light punch to my left cheek before I knew it. I turn my head to face it, and the sun slowly peeks past the wind turbines at Cooriemungle, slighting obscuring my vision. I shift my head right to keep my direct eyes out of the sun's light, taking solace in the view of the bushy inclined hill at the south end of town. The glowing yellow hue strikes the east side of town. The higher houses on Pitcher and Hennessey become visible before the whole town was enveloped in that soft, morning light. A few caravans litter the campsite, one hidden behind the row of Norfolks by the creek. The town’s on full display now; the forecasted overcast deciding not to turn up this morning, but she’ll come at some point knowing our reliable Victorian weather. The main street is still quiet, undisturbed from the view that I have on the platform.

I shift my sight to the right, going over the back of the surf club, along Lord Street and the Norfolk Pines and past the rocket shed to view the sea. The western headland and old steps cut my view slightly, but our pier on the opposite headland remains unobstructed. The car park behind it is empty, and I can see why. The Point is pretty rough this morning, and the sets are all over the place. I wouldn’t go out there, but I’m pretty sure that there’ll be a few youngsters later today who’ll brave the conditions for a surf or to hop on the boogie board.

Then, almost by a hidden cue, a few larger waves start breaking in the middle of the channel, reminding the rest of the sea of its presence. The set comes and rolls through, the Point and the Bowl becoming a pot of whitewater mess. But over a few minutes, the ocean slowly regains its original bluish-green texture. The vast sea behind looks deceptively flat as far as my eye can see on the horizon, the occasional white dagger appearing as the current pushes the sea towards eastward. That familiar sound of the sea still sings in my ear, almost reverberating on the limestone behemoths that protect our beach.

I smile as I begin the 193-step journey back down to sea level.

Yeah, this was a good way to spend the morning.