I'm Brian. I'm an American, but don't hold that against me. Before I walked 2,200 miles to get here to Maine, I lived in Perth, Australia for a year. In June of 2007, this really happened:

I only lasted a couple months in that dodgy house I told you about before.  The Maori Mallet and his compatriot Richard continued their drunken shenanigans a full seven nights a week.  A young married couple moved in (which I found odd since they were Australian and this was a share house) and promptly became a regular stop on the local constabulary’s domestic violence tour.  A Czech roommate began dealing prodigious amounts of marijuana, though that wasn’t entirely bad.  I mostly hung out on the separate, second floor unit, which managed to verge on the normal.  The only real oddity in the house was a Singaporean kid, allegedly attending school, that I would see only once a day for five minutes when he came to the kitchen to make food.  He would return to his lair with his meal, not to emerge until he was hungry again.  I suspect he was a raging Internet porn freak, a diligent student, or both. 

This simply wouldn’t do for my Australian experience, so I moved to the beach: Scarborough, Western Australia.  I rented a room from a co-worker at Tonic Café only a few blocks from the sands.  I remember when I hauled my stuff there, driving west on Scarborough Beach Road.  It’s a downward slope the last couple miles to the coast, and I looked down across the tile roof tops of the beach community and straight on to the Indian Ocean, as the red setting sun skipped its last rays across the waters like a street of sapphires.  I imagined the sun as a giant Tiki god, beating a drum and chanting, “Come to me!” as it pulled the willing to the west. 

This was more like it.  In my first week there in Scarboro (as the incumbent Aussie desire for simplicity would say) two memorable things would happen to me.  The first, since I was at the beach, involved a board.  The second, because I loathe order, involved the number one.  

Surfing is a way of life in Australia.  It has been ever since it was introduced by Hawaiian legend Duke Kahanamoku in 1915.  But it’s also a community of closed ranks, not easily broken into by outsiders or beginners.  Not wanting to make a fool of myself, I decided to ease my way into the waves by starting with a boogie board.  I found a small surf shop near the beach discreetly tucked in between other businesses and lacking in any overt advertising.  Thinking this would be the kind of shop favored by locals, I gave the proprietor an honest appraisal of my (lack of) skills and humbly asked for his help and guidance.  Boy did he ever give it to me.  

Dennis had the blond hair and tanned, leathery skin you would expect from a life-long beach bum.  I bet he could still catch a gnarly wave or two, but he must have been pushing 60 years of age, so he had to get his kicks in other ways.  That sly dog set me up with an honest rental board and some solid tips, and as he led me to the door, casually asked, like he had almost forgotten, if I wanted a flipper.  Thinking I was being tested, I balked at the idea and laughed a laugh that said I was wise to the trick.  But when I looked at Dennis’ box of rental flippers, I noticed that there was, in fact, not a pair in the pile.  They were all unmatched, single flippers.  Skeptical but reluctant to insult this local guru, I took one single, solitary, lonely flipper, and accepted his vague reasoning as to why this was the local approach. 

Straight to the beach I went, where I donned my second-hand wetsuit for the first time.  In hindsight, the first time putting on a wetsuit is like the first time putting on a condom: it’s less embarrassing if you practice alone beforehand.  After I removed my head from an arm hole and managed to get one leg in each of the leg holes, I turned in rapid circles like a dog chasing its tail as I tried to get my hands on the zipper that went straight up the spine of the suit.   Upon success, I attached the board rope to my ankle, put on my single fucking flipper, struck a pose, and half-rooster-walked to the water.

When I got waist-deep, I hopped onto the board, started kicking, and promptly propelled myself in a circle.  Dennis had got me, and he got me good.  But he who laughs last wins, my friend.  You never got that rental board back, did you?  And I buried the flipper in the sand. 

A couple days later, I was struggling through a brutal pile of dishes at Tonic that would take me until near midnight to conquer.  I was angry, because I had inherited most of that stack from the lunch dishie, Danuta, whose skills were far inferior to my own. 

When I finally slayed that soapy dragon, I stopped on my way home at my favorite place for late night, Peter's by the Sea, a kebab shop run by a Greek guy with a lazy eye. I have no idea if that was Peter or not, because he was a little light on conversation and heavy on the Russian-like way of talking that makes you think he’s threatening your life even when he says, “Thank you, come again.”

After taking my order he gave me my receipt with a number on it.  I was number one.  It was the first time all day I felt on top.  Cockily I told him, "Hey, I'm number one.  You gotta’ make my kebab extra special."  I could see that he was about to open his mouth to explain that 1 comes up just as often as 2-100, and also to threaten my life, but instead he gave me the eye- he realigned his head to look at me with his lazy eye.  I decided to drop the subject.

When my number was called I approached the counter to see three generations of this Greek family in a huddle over my food.  Would this be the extra special kebab that I had requested?  The eldest, with the lazy eye, asked me if I had ordered cheese, threatened my life, and kept one eye on me while the other was on his teenage grandson, who stood sweating nervously over my order.  I told him I didn’t care for cheese on kebabs, but I immediately regretted it.  I knew Lazy Eye would make the rest of that kid’s shift miserable for dishing out a bad kebab.

I got the impression that Lazy Eye considered throwing away an order a sacrilege, so I stood there, just looking at them, not knowing what to do.  Then the middle Greek winked at me and spoke for the first time, “Say yes, no charge.”

I got that kebab for free.  I was number one.

Brian Spigel is a reformed world traveler based in Portland, Maine, USA. After stints in various American national parks, Antarctica, Thailand, Australia, and the Appalachian Trail, he is currently attempting to live a so-called normal life in Portland, Maine.