S Sorrensen
Ballina. Thursday, 6.17am
There are some clouds, so I won’t see the sun pop like an inflamed bubble out of the ocean. But, in compensation, I’m getting this textured igneous smudge across the horizon as dawn breaks like an egg.
Beside me, an old bloke in lycra shirt and shorts, which struggle to contain a magnificent belly, holds his bicycle and gazes east, his face lit egg-yolk yellow. It’s embarassing to see a mature person wearing this sort of garb, but, as a fellow sunrise celebrant, he has my respect.
This is my secret ritual: I regularly come to Ballina to participate in the sunrise ceremony. (Well, not so secret now, I guess.)
I leave my shack under the cliffs at the end of the world, and trek eastward, following a tributary, and then the main course, of the Richmond River to here, land of the Big Prawn, Las Balsas raft and seaside retirement, where the mighty river meets the Pacific Ocean.
Then, with a small congregation, I witness the dawning of a new day.
In an autumn of insulting verbiage towards the voters, of inhuman abuse towards the suffering, of foolish disrespect towards the ecosystem, this sunrise service is an honest homage to the miracle of light and life.
I’m standing among the jumble of concrete blocks and rocks that is the end of the North Wall. This man-made finger of rock pokes into the sea at the river mouth and points to Ecuador (from where the Las Balsas expedition drifted in 1973. You can see one of the balsa rafts in the Maritime Museum up the road. See? Ballina rocks!)
To my left a pod of dolphins is surfing the break into Lighthouse Beach. There are four or five of them. One flips out of the wave, gets some air, and arches its back before splashing back into the water. It looks like fun.
Closer to shore, a human, clad in black rubber, also surfs.
A young bloke and his girl sit on a concrete block, his arm around her, keeping her warm in the cool autumnal air. They, like the lycra codger and me, stare at the flaming flare.
I have seen them here before. They are regular communicants, gathered here to receive the sunrise sacrament. Their being here gives me hope, because life will not be easy for future generations. I’m glad these two are still connected to the actuality of land and sea, of sunrise and sunset. For many, the planetary reality is now only a shadow lurking behind the noisy distractions of an artificial world.
The sun will rise every day – this we cling to – but, in the future, what sort of world will those first rays fall upon? Here and now, we live in a bubble. The air is clean, the river flows, the rains still come. Our warmongering is not yet on home soil, and our abuse is mostly for foreigners and Aboriginals.
Yes, what a beautiful bubble I’m in. I can almost smell the coffee brewing and the eggs poaching, as Ballina wakes behind me, preparing itself for my breakfast. A man could retire here…
His arm may keep her warm, but I hope it also keeps her safe. I hope they continue coming for the sunrise, a meditative moment in the daily clamour. Contact with reality.
I wish our politicians would attend sunrise here. No vacuous slogan or high-vis fluoro vest needed. I wish we all would attend sunrise here. It would remind us of ourselves.
Actually, that’s probably not a good idea – there isn’t enough room on the North Wall for us all. Some of you should watch it from Byron. (The parking meters don’t start till 9am.)
For four decades The Echo has printed the stories some people loved, some people hated, and some pretended not to read. If you want us to keep telling the truth, the real truth, not the sugar-coated version. We’ll need your support to keep the presses rolling. 
