One massive perk of living in Sydney is the ability to escape its concrete heart and find oneself on an overpopulated beach in less than an hour.  Every year, as summer emerges, so too do swarms of sunbathers, searching for the feeling of careless abandon that can only come from a day of salty-sea-air and harsh UV penetration.

One fine Saturday, my friend Jen asks if I’d be interested in cycling from Surry Hills to Coogee, and after recently completing a singular lap around Centennial Park – thus deeming myself a ‘cyclist’ – I accept. Coogee is one of the eastern suburbs’ most popular gems and a stinking hot day calls for a trip to the seaside – all be it by means of impossible physical exertion.

Jen’s bike is cool. With a black, retro frame, tan trimmings and a basket fit for olives and Sartre, Jen’s bike speaks to the hipster nonchalantly dwelling inside us all. My bike is more on brand of ‘suburban hockey enthusiast’. But with a not-so-small journey before us, I’m happy to be opting for grunt over grace.

Said journey includes one intimidatingly steep hill, and to my abject horror, Jen conquers the incline on her cool bike with ease. Pedaling furiously on the lowest gear possible, I look up from the burning asphalt to catch a fleeting glimpse of Jen before she disappears down the other side, leaving a waft of sweet victory in her tracks. Hipsters rejoice.

We finally arrive at Coogee, and after locking the bikes away from the threat of idle thieves, wander through the sun-worshippers to find a spot at the northern end of the beach.

It becomes clear that every English backpacker in Sydney has the same idea. Not that this is a bad thing. For a naturally pale New Zealander of Scottish ancestry, the translucent glow of fair-skinned bodies make Summer’s first beach outing decidedly easier to stomach. Amongst the pasty-white Brits I notice other beach standards: The Eastern Suburbs’ Princess, the Brazilian Bods, and the Bogan Contingency (see footnotes).

After reducing the crowd to crude stereotypes, it’s time for a dip.

The water is perfection – cool and clean – the ideal antidote to exercise. The waves are big enough to provide a little drama, without posing any real threat of drowning. I splash about in the whitewash like some sort of deranged infant, drunk from the intoxicating combination of salt and surf. As I’m splashing about, reconnecting with my inner-child, I unintentionally cast my mind back to a scene from one of my all-time favourite childhood films: Jaws.

Fish and chips seem like a good idea at this point.

As the afternoon progresses, the more intoxicated Coogee’s Bogan Contingency becomes. There’s a distinct waft of machismo in the air, and mixed with the aroma of deep-fried fish, you can almost smell a fight brewing. Either that or a fisherman is wearing too much Lynx. Time to head back to the hills me thinks.

Our bikes are waiting for us in the manner you’d expect from two inanimate objects, and on the ride back the suburban hockey enthusiast leaves the hipster for dead. The natural order of the universe is once again restored.

Footnotes

The Eastern Suburbs’ Princess

An essential ingredient in any Sydney beach scene, this solo creature’s primary purpose is topping up an already flawless tan. This can be achieved while pondering complexities such as Sass and Bide’s latest swimwear range or Instagramming selfies. Be warned – the Eastern Suburbs’ Princess is as unattainable as she is privileged, so unless you’re an aspiring media tycoon, it’s best to leave this creature to her own vapid devices.

Brazilian Bods

Spot the large group of people who are infinitely hotter than you, having more fun than you will ever know, and you’ve located the Brazilian Bods. The women are as comfortable in g-strings as the men are in hot pants, and both genders boast an average of sixteen perfectly sculptured abs. For these folk, the beach isn’t merely a place to passively generate skin-cancer; group activities such as Capoeira help maintain a consistently lively vibe.

The Bogan Contingency

What fire is to tribal cultures of ancient times, a beer-crammed eskie is to the Bogan; this central plastic bin is integral in bringing Bogans together. Not unlike tribal cultures, these people can also be identified by distinct markings – poorly applied fake tan for sheilas (females) and Southern Cross tattoos for blokes (males).  In the absence of a visual sighting, listen out for irregular soundwaves carrying any mention of ‘VB’ – the call of the Bogan travels far, especially when thirsty.

MEET THE LOCAL: RACHEL WINTLE

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