Most days I have the place to myself, for at least twenty minutes or so, before the young baristas appear, yawning and blinking into the disruption of sleep. Then the roller door goes up and the coffee machine hisses steam, as timber tables and plastic chairs are dragged onto sand-strewn paving.
This morning, as I prop my bike against the wall, there's one other bloke hanging around outside Cargo Cafe. He gazes out past the Shark Tower, either waiting for his caffeine hit or checking out the surf. The northeast swell that dominated the weekend has slumped into disappointment. There are a few diehards out there riding the scant offerings, but it's barely worth the effort. I flip off my thongs and take the steps to the beach, jogging toward the haze of Blacksmiths for a couple of Ks before turning and retracing my own damp prints.
