Noosa Dad – And How Not To become Him

It’s that time of year again. Holiday time.

Where I leave behind the daily angst of trying to get #superfitkid off the couch & YouTube in a beachside suburb in Sydney and, instead, try doing the exact same thing but transplanted to Queensland.

With much the same results.

We’ve made our vaguely annual schlep up to the aptly named Sunshine Coast, and the once-quaint beachside town of Noosa. Or Noosa Heads. Or Noosaville. Whatever.

In the same way that some restaurants are run by people who don’t actually like food and F45 workouts are seemingly created by people who hate movement & exercise, Noosa can feel like a holiday destination for people who don’t really like to travel.

It’s all so painless and dull. 

I don’t know about you but I want a little danger when I travel, a frission of excitement and risk. I want to wander about not quite knowing if I’ll end up at my destination or who I might encounter on the way there. 

I’m not talking ‘riding a moped sans helmet in Bali’ dangerous. Or, for that matter, riding a moped in Bali full-stop.

But I want a degree of difficulty tossed into the equation. We’re not trying to split the atom here. I’m not trying to leave Naples city centre in a hire car. I’m not trying to get across Dalston after dark in a t-shirt whilst wearing a reasonably expensive watch (although this does propel you to running at warp-speed through a few housing estates).

Just some humdrum getting lost and having to ask for directions (once) will do. Maybe getting a little bit ripped off by a local fake basketball-jersey salesman. 

But in Noosa. Nothing.

The worst thing that could possibly befall you is being smothered by linen. Or clubbed over the head with a rogue Birkenstock.

Because the only thing less dangerous than Noosa itself are the fashion smarts of its wealthy visitors.

Never before has so much (linen & cork) been sacrificed for so few.

Families roam in packs. 

Dad out in front, or rather Dad’s gently be-linened paunch out in front, Navy Birkies crunching nervously beneath him. A couple of bratty, rashie-covered kids in the middle, miraculously without phones in their hands. And resplendent at the back, a cascading Mardi Gras float on foot, is the Mother hen, a floaty, swishing linen kaleidoscope.

For clarity, this isn’t a unique sight; this is the norm.

You get swarmed by a few of these together and it will take you 20 minutes to get out.

Alarmingly it’s not just families who fall victim to this curse.

The Kid and I were at dinner a couple of nights ago at a very smart establishment called Locale and four cool young lads walked in, as did 8 identical beige / brown (what colour is that even?) Birkies.

If they’ve been hooked this early then we’re all in trouble.

Even the rogues and ruffians here are genteel and have scruples.

We observed some likely lads scoping out a beachfront resort to pull off one of the best holiday scams known to man (or woman): the old sneak into a resort you’re not staying at and use the facilities.

Now this is a classic trick, best pulled off in places like Thailand & Vietnam where the danger levels are already running white-hot but, more importantly, things like the language barrier and professionalism of the staff generally stop any scenes being caused.

The key, as we all know, allegedly (nudge-nudge, wink-wink), is getting hold of the resort towels somehow (anyhow). Once you have one of these tucked under your arm, you’re home & dry.

Anyhow, back to the point. These young master-criminals, these 15 year-old, privately-educated Moriarty’s were on the cusp of hopping the fence when one of them called out:

“Sebastian, stop. There’s little kids in the pool.”

Thence they merely slipped away to find their next mark.

And so, you see, Noosa is a terrible place, full of terrible people and you really shouldn’t ever come here.

Yet here I am, in my fake (Aldi) Birkenstocks, confirming the dates for next year’s holiday back here in Noosa, dammit.