December parks its machine all day where crumpled banksia cones parallel stranded kelp. The surfboards arrive on chunky vehicles. Occupants change into wetsuits on warm roadway. Chinese in Brits vans sail past the line-up. A butterfly bobs across. Families in sensible cottons and cabbage hats find ti-tree shade for their town car. Campervans in mock-hippie obey parking restrictions. Surf haze and cicada phrases drift over the sunglass set, looking for lunch. Workmen down from fire-affected areas park where “that’s good enough.” Picnickers unpack the boot, slap on, but the heat may be unkind. By evening they’ll all be someplace else.