I’d just gotten back to Australia after months touring Europe as a photographer with **TRACER** (stoner rock band from Adelaide, SA). We’d been doing the cold, grey winter thing: cramped vans, hangovers, late nights. I landed home exhaust fanned and jet lagged, but stoked to be back for the Aussie summer.
I hadn’t seen my cousin “Tate” or my mate “Artie” (not real names) in ages, so Tate suggested hiking from Heathcote to **Karloo Pools** in The Royal National Park, a freshwater swimming hole popular with backpackers, drinks and lots of sunshine. We’d done it before.
We stopped in at a bottle shop, but I didn’t buy anything because I already had about half a litre of dutyfree Kraken rum from tour and an open bottle of what I thought was white wine from the night before.
On the walk in I was swiggin’ the Kraken straight from the bottle, telling tour stories. Before we even reached the water, the rum was gone and I arrived *properly* drunk.
There was a handful of people there, mostly backpackers, music playing. I stripped off and jumped straight in for a skinny dip (it’s not a place known for naked swimming). Still swiggin’ from the “white wine,” chatting to anyone, being that loud, overly confident drunk guy. Not aggressive, just drunk and silly.
One girl looked at my bottle and goes:
*“You know that’s red wine, right?”*
I laughed it off.
*“Nah, it’s white, trust me.”*
I slurred in at her and offered her a swig.
She declined, adding:
*“Pour some on your hand."*
So I did and it was dark red. I genuinely had no idea.
People started moving away from me. I kept swimming until getting out, then it hit me. I projectile vomited everywhere. A mix of Kraken and red wine was running down the rocks back into the water. Everyone still swimming immediately bailed.
Tate shook his head, muttering in disgust:
*“You’re um cobber."*
Then he left.
Artie stayed, helped me finish puking, he gave me water, helped me dress, gathered my stuff, a real friend effort.
The hike back was chaos. I was stumbling, I tripped over a root, I smashed my toe, I dropped my phone and camera, broke the Kraken bottle in my bag. By the time we got back it was totally dark and Tate was gone.
Next day I had a brutal hangover. Day after that: fine. Artie and I laughed about it. He said I wasn’t offensive, just way too drunk. I apologised and promised to take it easier.
About a month later I saw Tate again. Deadpan he says:
*“Yeah, I barred you for a month. You were out of control.”*
I was like:
*“You did what?”*
He explained he’d intentionally not spoken to me as punishment.
I hadn’t even noticed, but the more I thought about it, the weirder it felt. He’s my cousin, not my dad. He’s been drunk and dumb before too. It felt patronising, like he’d decided to discipline me.
So I’m in two minds. I know I was an idiot that day, no questions. But it wasn’t malicious. I went too hard and I apologised. Part of me thinks his “ban” was him trying to feel superior?
AITA?