Departures and Golden Arches

The inexorable march of time—that ever-present counterpoint to our nomadic freedom—now commanded our full attention. Academic schedules and flight itineraries imposed their rigid framework upon our wanderings, compelling us eastward with determined purpose. Sal's online tutorial awaited, followed by tomorrow's flight to Queensland where her Master's studies would claim her for the coming month. Though we had savoured our unexpected extension at Lake Pedder, borrowed time eventually demands repayment.

We paused at Mt Field to replenish our water reserves, surprised to find the campground still heaving with humanity. Caravans and tents sprawled across every available patch, children's laughter punctuating the afternoon air. "When does peak season actually end?" we wondered aloud to each other, navigating between clustered vehicles to reach the water point. This persistent popularity suggested Tasmania's secret was perhaps not as well-kept as locals might wish to believe. With our tanks brimming—that most precious resource for continued independence secured—we consulted our digital oracle. The GPS offered its mathematical prophecy: our arrival at Seven Mile Beach would precede Sal's tutorial by precisely five minutes. Such razor-thin margins left no room for leisurely meanderings or spontaneous detours.

We slipped back into the arterial flow of traffic, the bus humming steadily beneath us as suburban landscapes gradually replaced wilderness vistas. Our conversation drifted between practical preparations and wistful reflections on our recent sojourn among mountains and mirrored waters. The windscreen framed an ever-changing canvas of approaching civilisation—power lines reclaiming the sky, road signs multiplying, human constructions asserting dominance over the natural world.

Seven Mile Beach day use area welcomed us like an old friend—that clandestine urban sanctuary we had claimed as our own on multiple occasions. Its proximity to Hobart Airport made it particularly valuable for transitions such as this, a liminal space between our preferred wilderness and the necessities of conventional living. We arrived with the prophesied five minutes to spare, the bus settling into position with practised ease as Sal gathered her academic materials and prepared to enter her digital classroom.

While Sal immersed herself in scholarly discourse, Anth seized the opportunity to complete unfinished business. Previous stays at this familiar haunt had left several geocaches undiscovered—those modern treasures hidden in plain sight, waiting for the initiated to uncover them. With determined stride, he set off across familiar terrain now transformed by purpose, his phone occasionally raised like a divining rod guiding him toward hidden caches.

Time—that constant companion of conventional existence—slipped by with deceptive swiftness. Two hours dissolved into memory, Sal's academic obligations concluded while Anth returned with the quiet satisfaction of successful geocaching conquests. Reunited in our mobile sanctuary, we contemplated the evening ahead. The prospect of cooking held little appeal on this night of transition, our mental energies already directed toward tomorrow's separation.

"McDonald's in Sorell?" The suggestion emerged simultaneously, that rare perfect synchronicity of thought that occasionally blesses long partnerships. We laughed at our shared craving for this most ordinary of indulgences—a reminder that even committed nomads occasionally desire the predictable comfort of familiar flavours. The golden arches beckoned from nearby Sorell, promising uncomplicated satisfaction and momentary reconnection with mainstream existence.

Our journey to this temple of globalised consistency was brief, the restaurant's interior bathed in that distinctive lighting that exists nowhere else in the natural world. We savoured our chosen combinations with the peculiar pleasure that comes from occasional deviation from self-prepared meals. The conversation flowed easily between us, deliberately avoiding dwelling on tomorrow's impending separation, focusing instead on plans for reunion and adventures that awaited our reconvened future.

Night had fully claimed the sky by our return to Seven Mile Beach, stars puncturing the darkness overhead as we nestled into our familiar spot. The gentle rhythm of distant waves provided accompaniment to our evening rituals—teeth brushed, blinds drawn, bed prepared. We lay together in the darkness, the warmth of proximity particularly poignant with separation looming, whispering plans and possibilities across the narrowing hours.

Morning arrived with characteristic Tasmanian crispness, sunlight filtering through our curtains to paint the interior in gentle gold. Breakfast passed in companionable quiet, each of us privately contemplating the coming month apart while outwardly maintaining cheerful practicality. Bags were checked, documents confirmed, the small preparations that precede air travel completed with methodical care.

The drive to Hobart Airport carried the weight of imminent farewell. We travelled the now-familiar route, conversation occasionally punctuated by comfortable silence. The airport appeared on the horizon, its utilitarian architecture a stark contrast to the natural cathedrals we had worshipped in mere days before. We navigated to the departures area, the bus finding temporary harbour among conventional vehicles of travellers with conventional lives.

Our goodbye carried the particular poignancy of practised separation—not our first, certainly not our last, yet never entirely without its sting. "A month," we reminded each other, a relatively modest span in life's grand calendar, yet significant within our chosen existence of shared experience. A final embrace, lingering yet constrained by public setting, before Sal shouldered her bag and turned toward the terminal doors, her figure gradually absorbed by the building's institutional neutrality.

Anth returned to the suddenly quieter bus, the absence of Sal's presence altering its familiar dimensions. The day stretched before him with possibilities—small freedoms of solitude balanced against the underlying loneliness of separation. For now, one more night remained at Seven Mile Beach, one more sunset to witness alone, one more evening meal prepared for one instead of two. Tomorrow would bring new decisions about where to pilot their temporarily single-crewed vessel, but today was for adjustment, for the gentle recalibration that follows each loving departure.

As night approached, the bus sat quietly at the edge of Seven Mile Beach, a solitary sentinel beneath the emerging stars. Inside, Anth moved through spaces still echoing with Sal's temporary absence, his thoughts already counting down the days until their nomadic wholeness would be restored once more.En savoir plus