Friday, September 22, 2000
Life sweet on beach in Sydney
SYDNEY, Australia — I'm sitting in the sunshine on a grassy bluff overlooking a half-mile crescent of white sand. The South Pacific is bluer than Frank Sinatra's eyes. Surfers work one end of the beach, where the waves are meatier. Women wearing smiles walk by frequently.
There's not a cloud in my mood.
So don't bother me, mate. I'm working.
Personally, I think 20 minutes on each side, front and back, is the way to go. I feel that promotes a nice, even tan. Don't forget the sunblock. The world's biggest ozone hole hovers above southern Australia. I recommend SPF 30, applied liberally.
I might go for a swim. I might not. Have you seen my sunglasses?
I'm here covering the beach volleyball action, busting my tail as usual. I'm doing it for you, reader. I do it all for you.
The top American team of Holly McPeak and Missy May won its way into the quarterfinals Thursday. They beat Italy, 15-13. At least I think they did. I mean, it's possible.
I could use some sunblock.
This side of paradise
Beach volleyball was my favorite Olympic sport in Atlanta, and they didn't even have a beach. Here, they've got a beach. What a beach.
Bondi (rhymes with oh-my) Beach is a 15-minute drive from downtown. I've been to lots of beaches near urban areas: LaJolla Cove near San Diego, Rodeo Beach near San Francisco, Miami Beach, Malibu. They look like rhinestones compared to Bondi.
Bondi isn't just a beach; it's a metaphor for the country. Australians are the Southern Californians of the Southern Hemisphere. In Sydney, hedonism is ripe. This is a city that spends $4 million a year on fireworks. In the summer, Sydney-
siders flock to Bondi by the thousands. The street facing the water is called Campbell ... Parade.
It's hard to be cranky when you're this close to paradise. Not to rub it in, but Bondi is just one of 70 beaches in metro Sydney.
My new mate, Michael, has been a lifeguard here six years. He can't recall anyone drowning here, though, all options considered, it wouldn't be a bad way to go.
“Ever live anywhere else, mate?”
“Nah.”
“Ever want to?”
“I don't believe I would.”
Why not every year?
The 10,000-seat, packed-to-the-max beach volleyball stadium sits like a street person in the middle of the oh-my. No wonder some of the locals complained loudly about its location. The $15 million structure looks like a Burger King in the Louvre.
No worries, mate. They're taking it down next month.
Maybe they should leave it up. I vote for moving the Olympic Stadium here. Perhaps the entire Olympics, every four years, for the rest of time. It's a very big beach.
McPeak and May are favored to medal here; probably the Brazilians stand between them and the gold.
If you were wondering.
Maybe you weren't.
On the beach, close to the water, a man is standing on his head in the sand. A few paces away, a topless woman dozes. The air temperature is 75 degrees. The water temperature is 72. The sun is a dazzling smile.
It is, I believe, time for me to turn over.
“Oooooh,” I say. “Aaaah.”
Life is good here at the Olympics.
Enquirer columnist Paul Daugherty welcomes your comments at (513) 768-8454.
Enquirer columnist Paul Daugherty welcomes your comments at 768-8454.
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