Bangkok21

Sorrento is the first place the European’s settled when they travelled south to what later became the State of Victoria. Although the white man soon abandoned its wilderness for something deep inside Port Phillip Bay, the Peninsula was to become a weekend haven for the growing city’s elite.

The drive down last night was hassle free, but my failure to stock the pantry before hand has me worried. Squeezing down the BMW 4WD jammed main street of Sorrento, tackling the tiny supermarket at peak hour beep beeping, chocker block with prams and trolleys, is no mean feat on an empty stomach.

The new Coles Supermarket that has opened in this once sleepy town has done little to quell the madness. How, or why, thousands of people squash themselves in every day of the summer holidays beggars belief.

That every Melbournian and his Mercedes seems to have joined me this weekend is part of the Mornington Peninsula’s cruel prank it calls “Getting Away from Melbourne.” But, as I find, there is solace not far away, you just have to use your sense of adventure.

With mask and snorkel I flee the flock and find myself somewhere out the back of Blairgowrie. The tides have sucked the water out, leaving spongy, wet reef spearing and tickling my bare feet. I sneak head first into a gutter and run my inquisitive fingers through chewy kelp, my feet paddling quietly on the surface.

A muffled yelp breaks the loud, rhythmic snorkel breath in my ears as I spot a large, deep, pink swirl eyeing me through the seaweed. On closer inspection I find sucking black lips and fleshy milk-coloured meat. Abalone for dinner tonight - Doug and Moo next door will be stoked!

Prising off a precious few, I emerge from the pool and skip up the sand dunes. Behind me the beach is deserted, accentuating the coastline’s rugged appearance. It looks like the end of the world. I could take my clothes off, tumble down the sandy banks and dive into the blue waters that beckon me. But I won’t. This time.

Cars may whiz around the spectacular Great Ocean Road just metres from the surf, but the National Park bordering this stretch of the Bass Strait means the Mornington Peninsula demands more: A sunburnt trek through ti-trees and sand dunes, teeming with bullants and blue tongue lizards, just to catch a glimpse of the deep blue Southern Ocean, and hopefully, the perfect swell rolling in.

A common view of the Peninsula, is however, surprisingly mundane.

“I don’t see the point to the Mornington Peninsula,” a friend of mine, who has committed a lifetime of summers to the West coast beaches, quipped down the line from Melbourne. “If I want to bathe in the bay and have a cappuccino, I’ll go to St. Kilda.”

I’m slopped on the couch with the phone under my sunburnt head, too exhausted to begin to explain the epic surf I'd had that day, and the fish my partner and I just ate, caught two hours earlier by yours truly on the deserted reef at sun set.

My friend, I assume, is referring to the ‘front’ beach, better known as Port Phillip Bay, stalked from Frankston to Sorrento by the Nepean Highway. Here, families, usually with young children, watch sail boats waltz by, feast on ice creams and sandy lunches, and enjoy the gentle lapping of water at their feet.

A main town (read: street) perches just a short stroll away, as Sorrento, Portsea, Blairgowrie and Rye all have shops not far from the bobbing boats, where many a coffee, glass of wine, or a vanilla slice can be found.

And in Sorrento especially, the shopping scene has far exceeded the quiet town’s expectations, with boutique stores and now even chains such as Witchery and Mimco serving the hoards of summer invaders. The similarities to Melbourne’s bayside suburbs are suspiciously increasing.

Even the beloved ‘back’ beaches may not provide safety from the ‘Melbournisation’ of the Peninsula. Found at Portsea, Sorrento, Rye and the dangerous Gunnamatta, all are patrolled by lifeguards and accessible by car park, but sometimes just finding a place to park amongst the 'Toorak Tractors', let alone lay your towel, can be a sweaty ordeal.

Surprisingly few people even realise that sweet relief from the crowds is just around the rock face. Greedily I drive to my own spots, waiting beyond dead end roads and prickly paths, where waves pound mercilessly upon reef, peel off points, over sand banks, and into rock pools, as lone fishermen bask in the sun and a few surfers share the waves.

On a full moon I doze on a blanket with a beer in my hand, mesmerized by white foam tumbling down black waves in the night. The muggy air wraps itself around me and I watch a beetle crawl up my leg and over my thigh.

The salt on my lips transports me to this morning and I’m careening down the face of a wave. I’m cutting back, gaining power, speed, the sun hot on my back, screaming along, my board slicing into the surge of water, my fingers dipping into the arctic wave.

The heart of the Peninsula is not the Portsea Pub or a nice cup of coffee at Stringer’s. It’s more than battling the crowds at Gisueppe’s Wave Pool (you can guess where that is) or bobbing like a buoy all day at the front beach.

Fishing off the rocks at low tide, surfing without a wettie or the crowds in February, and walking from Portsea to Cape Schanck along 30 kilometres of car-free coastline. Now that’s beach life.