It’s the day after Boxing Day, I’m sitting on the beach at Hideaway Bay, bum in the sea, Sav Blanc in my hand. It’s green mountains and clear waters are picturesque but not perfect – sticks and stones litter the waterline of the narrow beach and row of busy holiday homes while deadly irukandji jellyfish lurk in the waters. And yet in that moment for us it’s perfection.
On Christmas Day, myself and another housemate were evicted from a horrible living situation that had crept up on me in a way that I was blind to just how terrible it was. At first it had been paradise, and some would argue that I’m in the Whitsundays – how could it not be. I’d also brushed off multiple warnings from others that my landlord wasn’t to be trusted because he’d seemed so genuine.
Fast forward three months and I felt unsafe in my own home, hiding my cash and avoiding confrontation at all costs. I’d stayed so long because nothing quite pushed me over the edge and what was one more week anyways. When I opened that text on Christmas Day saying we were to be out of the house within 24hrs, I was too relieved that it was over to even be angry at how he’d stooped so low as to evict us on Christmas Day. So after spending Christmas Night and Boxing Day packing up all of our stuff and moving out, I hadn’t quite realised how much it had affected me until we were driving down the red dust track to Hideaway.
But now here we are on the beach, sombrero on our heads and sand in our bikinis. As we watch the kids whip around frisbees santa gave them, we feel that lovely sense of relief that we are once again happy and homeless and we’ve made it back to paradise.
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