Just Don't Stop

We’ve been told about the Blowhole, the must-see attraction at Kiama where we’re headed. The car is piled with our camping gear and food, and a powered tent-site awaits us at the caravan park above the beach. Hopefully we’ll be under some shady trees but it’s unlikely; I only booked last week and only for five nights; we’re not one of these long-staying families who come for the month, set up a village with their friends and return year after year. No, it’s just my daughter and me. And I want to her to be happy; she’s had a rough year. Maybe I’ll even get some nice photos out of it. Soph’s big on selfies, but dark on being photographed with me. I’m used to it, but well... I can still hope.

 

Just an hour out of Canberra and we have car problems. There’s an illuminated light on my dashboard that looks disconcertingly like an engine. Soph confirms it by checking the glovebox manual, and scowls. We swing left off the highway into Goulburn, to find a service centre that is open.

    

The mechanic plugs in an electronic meter and ‘hmms’ and ‘haaas’ as I watch the needle swing on the screen in his hand. He unplugs it and stands up. Soph is welded to her phone. The mechanic sucks his teeth. ‘Needs a new…’ and he names something unfamiliar and forgettable, ‘Can’t fix it today, but. Need to order it in.’ 

 

Ridges of worry form between the ones already furrowing my forehead. I tell him we’re just passing through, headed for the beach.  

He shrugs. ‘You might get there; might not. But— ’ and he pauses, looking mildly entertained, ‘if you stop, the engine might not start again.’ He’s winding the cord around the device. He couldn’t care a bit.  

I get Soph’s attention and tell her the choice. Her face falls. 

‘So what, we have to go home?’ Saying ‘home’ like it’s prison. 

 

The mechanic picks at his fingernails. 

I’m scrabbling to recover this. ‘Um, Is there somewhere I can get it fixed in Kiama?’ 

He scratches his oily head. ‘Nah, but there’s Nowra, I s’pose. Workshop won’t be open today, but.’ 

That’s it: I can get the car fixed while we’re away. I won’t need to drive once we get there and if it isn’t fixed in time, well, hopefully we can stay a bit longer. Soph deserves this holiday.  

I make the mechanic write his diagnosis on the back of a business card and give me the phone number for the garage at Nowra. 

 

 ‘Just don’t stop,’ he says, waving us off. I give him the thumbs up.  

For the next hour we’re fine. The radio’s on, the aircon’s blasting, the mood feels light — it’s holidays! Soph’s not a talker, not to me anyway, but I figure she’ll be happy once we get there. She’ll have her own space — she’s borrowing a friend’s small tent — and the place has a pool. We’ll eat dinners out, a rare treat. I’m looking forward to having milkshakes with her in cafes overlooking the sea. And there’s a coastal walk, a weekend market. We just need to get there.  

Of course, the problems really start once we’re off the highway, heading east through the Kangaroo Valley on a narrow mountain road. We’re losing engine power. Cars are banking up behind us. There’s nowhere to pull over.  

‘Let them pass!’ Soph demands. 

‘I can’t,’ I snap, fingers gripping the wheel. ‘If we go any slower we might stall. What if the engine won’t start?’ The silence in the car is tangible; behind us, a horn blares.  

Eventually we come to a village and turn down a side street. I’m glad I can’t see the drivers’ indignant faces as the other cars stream past. Soph wants a drink and only now realises the impact of ‘don’t stop,’ so she’s cross at me, so of course I’m cross back, because it’s not my fault and we’d be home now if she wasn’t so set on this beach-bikini holiday. Looping back onto the road, I feel terrible when another car is soon stuck behind us and the saga continues. 

And then it gets worse. ‘You’re almost out of petrol,’ she announces. And there are no distance markers for how far Kiama is. I turn off the aircon to save fuel. Soph’s phone has lost internet so she’s now focused on the drama. I’m cross with myself for forgetting to refuel before we left. Breaking down here, in the rolling hills on a Saturday afternoon when it would take hours to be reached and then towed, is too vile to consider. Two likelihoods now: engine failure, or an empty tank. I feel stupid but indignant too: who did all the packing, planning; who’s paying for it all? I grit my teeth and keep driving. 

 

Finally we’re on the outskirts of Nowra. The fuel indicator hovers at empty, another flashing light beside that of my faulty engine. We’re both craning our heads to find a petrol station, and I’m terrified of having to idle at traffic lights, which might make us stall, so I turn in slip lanes again and again, left, left again, searching for — 

‘There!’ she yells. 

 A fuel station, on the other side of the road. I’m not meant to cross the double white lines but to hell with that. Soph’s shocked, but I’m used to her disapproval. We limp into the driveway, and I’ll have to slow here, of course, but I won’t — can’t — turn off the engine. It feels strange to put the car into park and get out. ‘Turn Off Engine!’ stickers scream at me from every bowser; silent critical eyes. I need to speak to the person at the till. This’ll be interesting, I think. 

‘I can’t lock up. Don’t get out.’  

The glass doors slide open and the cool hits me like a wall. The attendant gives me a false smile and asks in a drawl, how she can help, so I start to explain. When she registers that the engine’s still running, she’s instantly awake. ‘Turn it off! You must turn it OFF!’ she demands.  

I explain I’m on a mechanic’s orders, and she’s scowling, but listening. And then she’s all efficiency; it’s like watching a training video: she whips on her fluoro-yellow hazard vest, hangs a whistle round her neck, wheels out the Fire Emergency wheelie bin to block access to the bowser behind me and from the bin she produces bright pink cones, which she places around the car. When she sees my daughter still in the car, she is apoplectic. ‘OUT!’ she orders, as if it was already on fire.  

As we both shelter inside the store, Ms Efficiency refuels for us. I expect she’ll be retelling the drama of our visit for months afterwards. Another customer attempts to drive in; she strains shrill at the whistle, wildly waving them on. With military precision, she replaces the nozzle on the bowser and is back at her counter in a flash to take my money and get me the hell off her property. My gratitude falls on a steely countenance. As we drive off, Soph and I have the first real laugh of the holiday.  

We make it to the beach, via a terrifying moment when I seem to lose control on the main street of pretty Kiama. The car won’t respond as I approach an intersection at the bottom of the hill, and all I can do is pull toward the gutter and jam on the brake. Soph looks up from her phone, curious. I’m still protecting her, she’s a worrier, but sweat pours down my back. I say something about just needing to pull over for a second, then listen to the engine. It’s sounding normal, and I experiment a little, inching forward, trialling the brakes. Now it seems okay, so when there’s — incredibly — no traffic, I ease back onto the road and we drive past the shops and past the beach and curve up the hill, me grateful for every metre. Soph has her window down, is focussed on the breaking waves. Just one more hill, I beg, exhaling only when we turn into the caravan park. By some miracle I spy the flag of our numbered site, and at this very moment the engine splutters and fails. We surf to our resting place.  

I turn the key, remove it, close my eyes. ‘Made it,’ I breathe into the deliciously long pause between then, and now. Soph is relieved too, although not enough to give me a hug. 

 We stumble out of the car and pick our way between caravans and tents to the cliff railing. The sparkling Pacific Ocean stretches as far as the eye can see. Below us, monstrous jagged rocks turn the pummelling surf into foam. Three shipping containers dot the horizon. I relax into the moment, feel the sun on my face, drink in the salt air. A minute later I’m craving a cold glass of wine.  

‘We should unpack,’ I say, but I’ve no energy for the idea, so I offer Soph lunch instead. We have fatly satisfying sausage rolls and ice creams from the kiosk. Soph helps me pull everything out of the car, then heads off to explore, calling back over her shoulder that she’ll pitch her tent later. She is a beauty under her long blonde hair as she swings away, following the meandering path between the Norfolk pines. I call the repairer and arrange for the car to be towed. 

By evening, my daughter has found her tribe, gangly teens who lurk at the picnic shelters down by the beach. Most of my meals are then alone, which is disappointing but admittedly does save me money. Soph, who seems to exist mostly on chips and gelato, get sunburnt immediately which turns her skin golden overnight. She tells me plainly on Day 1 that she has no desire to walk to the Blowhole, so I put it off until when we’ll have the car back. I read a lot, write a lot, window-shop, try to stay in the shade. It’s not the best holiday I’ve ever had... but I’m glad I got her here here. 

We finally get to the famous Blowhole on our last morning. The car has been fixed and I’m five hundred dollars poorer. We’re all packed up and I drive around the hill, down past the shops, smooth engine purring. Soph is giving me the silent treatment because she’s sorry to be leaving. I eventually find a carpark and we strike out for the point, following the signs to the Blowhole like obedient ants. At the railed-off gaping hole in the rock, signs suggest we stand back. I wonder if it’s worth the fuss since there’s not even any splashed water, but a crowd has gathered, waiting on nature’s entertainment. Soph is nowhere to be seen, so I amuse myself by listening in on other’s conversations. Fifteen minutes pass and I’m uncomfortably hot and thirsty, and thinking about giving this a miss, when there comes an odd, low sound. The crowd reacts, kids yell ‘it’s coming!’, and people ready their cameras. I look around for Soph and spy her in the crowd on the far side of the hole. The noise becomes rumble… becomes roar… becomes an upwards explosion of froth. Shrieks! Squeals! Gasps in every language around me, before the torrent of foaming water descends back on itself. The sea rushes over my feet and spray mists my glasses. A photographer beside me drops his lens cap and it’s carried on a rivulet and sucked into the hole.  

‘MUM!’ 

Soph’s balanced on the railing like she shouldn’t be, totally and completely soaked to the skin, laughing and waving crazily.  

For this moment alone, the holiday is worthwhile. And I don’t need a photo.