I: Sandtrax

The full-moon beach party was cranking. Another one of those endless summer nights that makes you feel like you will live forever was coming to an end, but Tyler was far from calling it. Time was now slowly creeping back into play – resuming its relentless toll – as the drug and alcohol cocktail started easing off, inviting an end to the moon’s promise of infinite youth. A first hint of dawn announced its arrival over the horizon, and suddenly the fairy lights adorning the dancing ravers shone a bit less bright. Tyler’s over-stimulated eyes managed to perceive the incoming ocean tide for the first time tonight. He also realised that the searing warmth of the looming day would make for a nasty hangover, but this happy camper was too deep into his self-indulgence to stop now, and the beach party down at Sandtrax was still running at full steam. This local backpacker party spot was covered from curious eyes by the old cherished sandbank, where many drunken passions and menageries had unfolded. On the opposite side of the road, a long iron wall of shipping containers, in shades of sun-beaten industrial reds and blues, completed the picture, stopping the bass from travelling into Fremantle and serving as a reminder of the inherent freedom of partying in a port city.

 The relentless pace of the techno march fuelled the palpable energy amongst a crowd of wobbly ravers with drinks in hand over bare feet, topped by furry hats, emulsified by slurred speeches. Deep and meaningful conversations unfolded in the comfort of the smooth sand – contrasted by the usual passed-out soldier near the rocks – both outcomes more than likely never to be remembered. Tyler leaned back against the silky white sand, taking in the view as the psychedelic vape’s effects weaved on and off. He could pick out every little detail over the sparse ocean in front of him, a blue in its truest form, forming a harmonious whole. The music slowed down as he inhaled once more and closed his eyes, handing himself over to whatever entity he felt engulfing him every time he huffed the smoke. As he opened his eyes, Tyler was brought back to ‘reality’ to see an early riser gliding his kayak through the smooth, honey-blue surface. Two very different ways to spend a Sunday morning, he thought. He came back to his senses – the monologue of this kind, excited stranger about chem trails bouncing around in his brain.

‘Thanks for the smoke, mate.’ Tyler mumbled as he tried to get up. The cool sand melted between his toes as he stumbled away from his fellow raver, who joined his hands in retribution as a farewell.

Tyler made his way through the softening sands and observed the party in front of him. The magic of the dancing crowd seemed to be slowly fading, as every detail became more discernible with the morning light. It was as if the spell of the night was coming to an end, except Tyler wanted to keep that feeling going. He noticed a few more people coming out of a caravan that had been catching his eye all night. The old, run-down mobile home was painted in a pale pink, coated with a pattern of native red and green wildflowers. It was parked behind the speakers, hitched to a flawless canary yellow GTS-R Commodore. The custom plates read BORN2DIE. Crew, Tyler deduced, and he somehow knew that if he was to keep this feeling going, the key to achieving this would be found within. As he grabbed himself the last beer out of an esky that seemed as if it had been brought into battle, Tyler made his way over to the mysterious dwelling.

*

He poked his head inside the caravan. The space was filled with empty bottles, forgotten half-smoked cigarettes and different tapestries invoking a singular feeling. A smell that made him think of his grandmother’s house emanated from within.

‘Are you lost, mate?’ a grungy voice asked from an unlit corner.

Tyler struggled to discern the features of the man smoking.

‘I’m looking for something.’

‘And what makes ya’ think you can find it in here?’ the man asked.

‘I just have a feeling that you can help me out.’

The man let out a grunt. He cleared his throat and scratched his beard.

‘What are ya’ after?’

‘That is the question.’ Tyler replied as he took a big swig of his beer. The high-bass hostilities took up another level with the first psytrance track of the morning. ‘What have you got?’

The question hung in the stillness of the caravan for what felt like a lifetime. The cavalcade of the trance beat deepened; the man put his cigarette out in an empty bottle of Jim Beam. He cleared his throat and got up towards Tyler.

‘You do a bit of this?’ the stranger asked him.

The smoothness of a glass pipe glistened in the man’s hands, loaded with a crystal, shard-like substance; Tyler swallowed deep and scratched his head.

‘Sure,’ he said, listening to the uncertainty in his own voice.

‘I’m Lawrie, by the way, but my mates call me Loz.’

‘I’m Tyler,’ he replied, as the mysterious man seemed to lure him deeper into the spider’s web of his caravan.

‘Are ya’ gonna stand out there all night, or are you coming in?’

Tyler watched himself stepping into the caravan awkwardly, a mere spectator of his own reality – he would come to evoke that moment in hindsight many times. A strange feeling oozed from his over-stimulated brain, as if he could feel his innocence thwart by the second as he approached this ‘Loz’ bloke. He swung the lukewarm beer back against his throat to hide his uneasiness and set the bottle down in a cemetery of empty stubbies.

‘Tyler, kid, do me a favour. Close that door behind ya’, will ya’?’