I’m writing this on an overnight Greyhound bus. Every limb feels fifty times heavier than it should. Muscles I never even knew existed are aching in every corner of my body. My chest and ribs hurt, and my right foot is bruised and throbbing. And despite the cramped conditions I currently find myself in, none of these aches and pains are because the person in front has fully reclined their chair into my personal space.

My body is seriously hurting as a result of surfing, but boy, was it worth it.

I’ve always seen surfing on the television and wondered what its like, catching a huge rolling wave and effortlessly using it to speed along, pull off tricks and generally have a good time thanks to nature. It looks like you need perfect balance, a ripped upper body and bags of coolness, none of which I possess, and largely why I’ve stayed clear of the sport. Plus, back home, there’s a significantly high chance of a turd finding its way into your mouth somehow.

And its cold.

I never thought I’d give it a proper go though, but all that changed when I reached Byron Bay, three hours south of Brisbane. Having spent hours on a bus passing by some amazing beaches, spotting ant-like surfers bobbing up and down over the swell, even passing through Surfers Paradise, a town named after one of Australia’s favourite pastimes, I think it dawned on me that I should at least give it a try.

I almost needed a surfboard to get to my hostel when I arrived off the relatively short four hour journey from Brisbane. If I needed any further proof that I have gone south enough for winter, then my welcome into Byron was definitely the required evidence. A huge rainstorm raged, leaving me camped out and sheltering by a rack of public phones until it eased off. It’s the first time I’ve actually had to wear my rain jacket in anger here, and is definitely the first time I have had to find a hostel, fully laden with bags, in the pouring rain. It knocks your spirit somewhat, especially when the address and iPhone map lead you in completely the wrong direction.

After trudging through puddles and looking lost for a while, a kind man with a multicoloured umbrella came over and pointed me in the right direction.

“And don’t worry about the weather – it does this in Byron. It’ll be blue skies tomorrow, you’ll see,” he shouted as I disappeared towards the Nomads hostel.

He was almost right. After a grey start, the sun began to break through. I walked to the beach, where there were already people catching waves. My decision was made, and I went in search of a deal. Most lessons are priced at $49 for two hours, but I walked into one backpacker travel shop where in return for ‘liking’ their Facebook page, I could get two $69 lessons for the price of one at Mojosurf.

“You’ll have to hurry up, it leaves at 12,” the travel agent said.

I looked at my watch – I had 10 minutes to get back to the hostel, pack a bag of stuff for the beach and change into my swimshorts. I somehow made it with time to spare.

“Too easy mate,” said Jimmy as I walked in (they really do say that over here)

He was wearing a cap, his long hair poking out of the bottom and his tan spoke volumes for the amount of time he clearly spends in the ocean under the sun.

“Ahhh, you’re all going to have a grrrreat tiiiime. Yuuuueeeeeeep,” he said, his cool surfery accent putting a smile on everyone’s face.

My instructor was Adam, or Adsy as he likes to be called, and I jumped into the bus to be taken to a nearby beach that is less crowded and better for learning.

There was only a few of us, a good sized group for learning. Among them was a guy from Western Australia who I was on Fraser Island with, and who I shared a dorm with in Rainbow Beach. Then there was Jag, from Manchester, who has been travelling for 17 months, doing everything from the usual sightseeing and partying to working at an orphanage in southeast Asia. We already had banter going on the bus, and we could feel it was going to be a good day.

After a short 20 minute ride, I found myself being handed a large green surf board. Its quite cumbersome to carry, as its larger than normal to give better balance in the water. There was a small handle in the middle, enough to give you a decent hold of the board, but with a strong wind, it was easy to get caught by a gust and find yourself being swung around.

Down on the beach, and after a few warm-ups, it was time to learn the basics –what to look for in the waves, how to spot a potentially dangerous rip tide, the impact the wind has and how to push through the waves with the surf board.

Adsy briefed us on the correct stance and how to paddle with our arms for a while, before we were grabbing our boards and heading out into the waves.

The first thing I can say is that surfing is a lot harder than it looks. The first thing you have to master, aside from getting up on the board, is making your way through the huge waves that Australia, and the Pacific Ocean, are famous for. Strangely, wave size is measured from the back of the wave – today, they were around four to five feet, but when you look at them from the front, they seem twice as high. Some of them tower above you, forcing you to jump and hold onto your surf board to allow you to keep on the surface. It’s a tiring cycle in itself.

Then, when you’ve waded out a fare distance, its time to spot a wave. We were in a good training ground, with waves and white water rolling all the way to the shore from breaking point around 60 to 70 metres out. It means you have plenty of time to ‘snap up’ onto the board. The ‘snap’ is a one move jump up from laying down, using your arms to push up from underneath your chest and then quickly bringing your feet from the back end of the board to a stance about halfway along it.

Despite plenty of practice on the beach, it’s a move that takes some doing, and relies on some strong upper arms. My first attempt ended with me toppling off the side, while my second attempt saw the board fly out from underneath me and whack me straight on the head.

And that was the general pattern for the next two hours, a constant wave (pardon the pun) of false push ups, falling off the side, the board flying from underneath me and finding myself somewhere under water with my hands on my head, taking yet another bump somewhere on my body from either the bottom of the sea below or my escapee surf board from above.

Kneel up, topple off, swallow salt water, crack my toes on the sandy bottom, back to the surface, drag board back to waves, repeat. It was frustrating, but strangely addictive.

Then, shortly before a break, and with a bit of help from Adsy, I finally did it.

“Get on…start paddling…this wave’s yours,” he shouted, holding onto my board.

I looked back, and a foaming white mass of water was getting ever closer.

“Big paddles now,” came the call from Adsy.

I took some huge, deep paddles on either side of the board. Suddenly I felt the acceleration as it caught the wave and began being pushed along.

“Snap up NOW,” Adsy shouted from behind.

I pushed hard with my arms, jumped up and brought my feet underneath, staying in a low crouch as the board wobbled below me. And then it stabilised – I’d found my balance, and stood up straighter. I remember thinking how high up it seemed to be standing on the board, and how strangely quick the wave moves you forward.

There was a cheer from behind – it might have only been for a few seconds, but I was officially surfing.

After a break, I was back in the water and gradually finding my feet on the surfboard. Eventually, I was able to pick out each wave I wanted to ride, paddle fast enough to catch it, and in a fashion, stand up on the board and ride it all the way to shore. It was a great feeling, and there was a strange addiction to getting back into the ocean and trying it again, but wanting to get on the board that bit faster, that bit smoother, or perhaps just swallowing less of the salty water.

It was a similar feeling to when I learned how to ski four or five years ago. It was difficult at first, but there was something that kept making me go back for more. There might have been the odd fall that twisted a knee slightly, gave you a coccyx-bruising knock and left you shattered come the end of the day, but the adrenaline and fun outweighs the risk. The same can be said for surfing – its hard work, you get pounded by the sea, sand and board, and you can consume enough salt to keep Saxo in business for a year, but it’s a brilliant way to spend some time at the beach.

Four hours passed by really quickly, and we headed back to Byron Bay happy with our efforts. I promptly passed out in my dorm, despite organising to meet some of my fellow surfers for a beer that night. I did, however, wake up in time to use my free beer voucher at the Woody’s Surf Shack bar in the town,

meeting up with some of the girls in my room before moving on to Cheeky Monkey’s, a bar-come-nightclub where, by all accounts, pretty much anything goes.

Anything goes, apart from me, however, who got refused entry in the most bizarre circumstances. Having consumed a little leftover goon from the Fraser Island trip, as well as having my one lone free beer at the pub, I led the group to the door. I was asked for ID (which, at almost 31, is a joke anyway) and pulled out some business cards from people I have met, rather than my driving licence. Trying to get some light from a streetlamp, I leaned back to move the shadow of my head out of the way of my wallet. Somehow, shifting my weight like that meant I took a step back and I slightly stumbled on my ankle.

“Woaah, someone’s had enough tonight haven’t they?” said the bouncer, patronisingly.

“Erm, no, I’ve only had one beer,” I put back.

“They all say that mate. You’re not coming in. The police are over there, and they’ve seen I’ve refused you, so you’d better go home,” he replied.

In front of quite a few people who I have just met, the whole episode was more than slightly embarrassing. It was a public humiliation, but everyone knew I’d only been out for half an hour, and that I was just being picked on for some reason. I tried to explain, but just got the usual patronising drivel from the doorman, which ended with one of his colleagues coming over and telling me ‘my night was over’.

Sadly, when faced with that type of ridiculous security, which, quite frankly, borders on bullying, there will only ever be one winner. It was barely midnight, but I went back to the hostel and opted for an early night. I was fuming, as I’d not even had chance to meet up with my surf class inside, but at least I’d wake up fresh for my second surf lesson the next day.

“Where did you get to last night,” Jag asked as I wandered into the MojoSurf shop with just a couple of minutes to go before the bus left. I explained, and he remembered how I’d sent him a text explaining when I’d got back to my room.

We spent another four hours trying to perfect how to get on the surf board, but strangely, both Jag and I found it much more difficult. The currents were stronger in the water, the waves were breaking and moving towards the shore much closer together, and many were not making it all the way to the beach without re-forming. It was frustration, but still enjoyable. The only problem was my tired and aching arms and legs – by the end of the session, and after hours of being smashed by wave after wave, I was barely able to lift myself up, let alone ‘snap up’, and instead found enjoyment cruising around on the board like a stranded dog.

Surfing is definitely something I will try again, whether its in the warmer waters abroad somewhere, or in slightly chillier waters back home. It’s a great adrenaline rush, and when you’re not leaning too far forward and faceplanting into the ocean, it’s an addictive way of spending time in the sea.

With an evening Greyhound booked, I got back to the surf shop with about an hours-worth of daylight remaining. There was still one place I wanted to reach, Byron lighthouse, which is officially Australia’s easternmost point.

Jimmy, who had been one of my instructors for the day, gave me a rental bike for the change in my pocket, and, despite aching legs and a storm raging around me, I made it to the top of the nearby peninsula with time to  spare. It was a steep climb, but the views, even despite the storm clouds and rough seas, were well worth it.

An interesting fact is that the Cape Byron lighthouse, which for the past few nights I have seen blinking away from the comfort of my hostel kitchen, houses the most powerful light in Australia, visible for some 50km. Its blinking light, every 15 seconds, warns the busy shipping lanes off the coast of the dangerous coastline, and has been in place since it was built in 1901.

It was exposed and windswept on the top of the rugged outcrop that the lighthouse sits atop of, and I watched the waves crashing onto the rocks below me. A mile or so out in the ocean, a container ship was pitching and falling on the swell, being whipped up by the offshore storm. One can only imagine what it must be like when Mother Nature puts her full force behind the weather here.

With darkness falling, a lack of cycle lights and another stormy shower about to blow in from the ocean, it was time to head back downhill to return the bike, collect my belongings and pack my bag back at the hostel. I had yet another free beer with Jag at Woodys Surf Shack, before heading to the bus stop for my final overnight Greyhound journey in Australia.

I was glad to have three days in Byron Bay, but part of me wishes I could have spent longer in the town. Its got a brilliant atmosphere about it – apart from the odd doorman here and there – and is a beautiful coastal town. In the height of summer, I can imagine it being a perfect place to spend a few lazy weeks. Everyone I met was friendly, helpful and seemed to just be happy to be living in what feels to be a very happy, cheerful town. Surfing plays a huge part in life here, and who knows, maybe one day i’ll return to ride the waves here once again.

For now though, I’m heading to Sydney, and ultimately, my flight out of Australia. But there is one last quick stop I need to make on the way – and it’s my first visit to someone who I have met on this journey, thousands of miles away in Thailand. A familiar face awaits.