The innate restlessness of Rick. If it is toward the disorganised, ridiculous, beautiful, unpredictable, fun and completely random that you find yourself drawn then you may find my stories worth a read. My adventures usually consist of epic, less then thought through road trips often spanning thousands of kilometers. I consistently cross paths with remarkable people of all persuasions and vocations. I visit beautiful places, some famous, some infamous but most stumbled upon while in my usual state of erratic wandering or while just plain lost. One thing is certain; my of harum-scarum stories will be completely random and probably have you setting off on you own disorganized missions, much to your own eventual elation, enlightenment and evil.

The experiences over the past-unidentified amount of time changed my memory into the likeness of a dream I had just woken up from. I couldn’t quite place it but I felt it must be important and worth a bit of time at least trying to recover.

Using every ounce of will power I could summon I managed to prise open my reluctant eyelids allowing the external world access to my floundering brain. Not only did my head flood with the expected suffering associated with sunlight stirred or rather shaken with the most violent hangover I have ever experienced but the floor my limp form was sprawled across found itself flooded with the contents of my stomach. After the third attempt I managed to wobble to a semi-standing position and realised that it wasn’t a floor that had copped the protests of my stomach toward the lack of respect I showed it but the deck of a fishing boat. My vision jerkily and painfully shifted over the gunwale, across the vast clear sky toward the horizon and managed to fix upon the rising sun bathed in a dark orange, fading to every hew of blue and eventful dark violet which I realised was a perfect match to the swollen, bleeding face of a straggly haired, bearded man laying asleep, unconscious or dead on the deck at my feet. I was sure I had just woken at sunrise after a night of partying and a bit of sleep but turning my vision from the shitty looking man and looking back up at the sun I realised something was wrong. The sun was going the wrong way. It was setting.

At this moment another wave of nausea over came my tormented stomach and it had nothing to do with the bloke bleeding on the deck. The apparent upheaval of the natural world, just after I had it revealed itself to me in totality, convinced my muddled brain it was either tripping or rather raving insane. Luckily this rude jolt to my burning grey matter managed to bring my memory back to a useable state, much as I imagine a shattered mirror might be useable for applying make up.. I had been surfing and generally wandering around the north west of Australia, had run out of money, stumbled onto a job on a prawn trawler and the poor bloke sprawled on the deck with an empty cider bottle banging rhythmically along with the roll of the boat between his face and the net winch was Clarky, one of my crew mates.