It couldn’t have felt less like Guy Fawkes’.  Although the wind had kept us both awake for much of the night (titter ye not, Mrs …), we were amazed when we surfaced to find it calm.  John was surprisingly enthusiastic about his windsurfing lesson.  (No lesson, actually.  For AUS$15, we had an hour’s hire of a windsurfer.  After some basic operating instructions, we were on our own.)  Two or three times John got his balance and started to move.  But no sooner had Brigid reached for the camera than … oops!  The wind changed and in he went again.

After struggling manfully for about 20 minutes or so, John needed a break.  Brigid waded in to collect the board.  She stood up … and pulled up the sail … the wind picked up … she wobbled … recovered … and she was off! (Not off the board, but sailing for the harbour entrance!) “See you in South Africa”, yelled the board’s owner.  “I hate her already”, muttered John.

Unfortunately, no one had bothered to explain how to turn round. As the figures on the beach got smaller and smaller, Brigid began to worry about the, all too real, prospect of the open sea.  Having tried, and failed, several times, to alter direction, she eventually jumped off the windsurfer, and suffered the indignity of having to swim back to safety … towing the board!  “Shame”, said John.

By the time she arrived back at the beach, the wind had got up again.  John was keen to have another go.  But, by now, there were white horses in the harbour.  After a couple of attempts, we both conceded defeat. 

We showered and changed, and hit the road for Monkey Mia.