The wind had swung around overnight, and by eight the sky was the colour of a cold beer can — pale gold, rinsed clean. I'd woken to the sound of rain on the tin roof again, the same rhythm I'd heard for three days, but by the time I'd boiled the kettle, the clouds had shredded and blown out to sea. My last full day on the Sunshine Coast, and it had decided to hand me a clear one. I took my flat white out onto the balcony of the little flat in Mooloolaba — about four dollars, maybe five with a tip — and watched the light catch the water. The plan was simple: one more walk along the headland at Point Cartwright, a proper coastal lunch, maybe one last look at the whales. Then, tomorrow morning, I pointed the ute north and didn't stop until Cairns.
The flat's been my base for ten days now, a modest one-bedroom place I found through a local rental site before I flew in. Rents here are still climbing — I'm told they're up about eight percent year on year as of mid-2026 — and I'm paying around fourteen hundred Australian dollars a month, which works out to roughly nine hundred and thirty US. That gets you a clean, furnished place a short walk from the beach, with a kitchen you can actually cook in and a landlord who fixed the hot water within a day. For a longer stay, I'd shop around the suburbs rather than the strips; the older blocks in Maroochydore or Buderim are quieter and a couple of hundred a month cheaper. But for this trip, it's been ideal.
I grabbed my daypack — water, sunscreen, a windbreaker, the good camera — and headed out. The air had that crisp, washed feel you get after rain, the kind that makes every colour look freshly painted. I turned onto the esplanade at Mooloolaba, past the first surfers already out at First Bay, their boards dark against the silver water. A few cafes were setting up umbrellas, and the smell of bacon fat and coffee drifted from an open door. The bus stop was just ahead, and I checked the TransLink app on my phone — the flat fifty-cent fare means I can ride anywhere on the coast for less than the cost of a coffee. Today I thought I'd walk instead. There's nothing like moving under your own steam to make a place feel like yours.
The coastal track from Mooloolaba to Point Cartwright is about five kilometres of pavement and compacted sand, and I've walked it four times in the past week. I know every bench, every peppermint gum that leans over the path, the exact spot where the ocean turns from green to deep blue. This morning, the sea was flat and steely, with a line of white where the reef broke a hundred metres out. A couple of runners passed me, and an older man with a pair of binoculars was staring fixedly at something off the headland. I slowed to look. A blow — a tall, single spout — hung in the air for a second before the wind took it. Then another, closer. I counted three humpbacks moving south in a tight group, their backs rolling dark and glossy as they surfaced. Mothers and calves, I guessed, heading home to the Southern Ocean. The Humpback Highway runs right past this coast from June to October, and mid-August is peak season. I'd already been out on a whale-watching boat twice, but seeing them from the shore never got old.
I sat on a low rock wall near the lighthouse — Point Cartwright Lighthouse, squat and white, built in the 1970s and still guiding ships into the Mooloolaba channel. The wind was picking up, and I pulled the windbreaker tighter. A few more whales passed, unhurried, and I found myself wondering what it would be like to be them — six weeks of travel, thousands of kilometres, no map, no plan, just the pull of the water. I had a vague itinerary of my own: tomorrow I'd drive north to Gympie, then on to Maryborough and Bundaberg, through the sugar towns and beef country, before reaching the dry tropics around Mackay and the reef waters beyond. But right now, sitting in the winter sun, I was in no hurry.
I checked the time on my phone — almost eleven. The light was good, and my stomach was beginning to make itself known. I headed back along the track, past the families with picnic baskets and the toddlers wobbling on balance bikes, and cut up through the park to the esplanade. Lunch, I'd decided, would be at Humble on Duke, a small place on Duke Street in Mooloolaba that I'd found on my first day and had returned to three times since. It does a proper feed — think local prawns, fresh salads, a menu that changes with what the boats bring in — and it's the kind of spot where the owner remembers your name and asks about your day. I ordered the fish of the day, a grilled snapper with a lemon and herb butter, and a side of chips. It came to about twenty-five dollars, which, for the quality, felt fair. A glass of water, a basket of bread, and I was a happy man.
After lunch, I wandered the few blocks to the Ocean Street strip in Maroochydore, the commercial heart of the coast. The shops were bright and unpretentious — surf brands, a bookstore with a shelf of local histories, a pharmacy that stocked every sunblock imaginable. I stopped at Sunshine Social Coffee Roasters, a low-key joint with a big communal table, and ordered a flat white to take away. Four dollars fifty, and it was the kind of coffee that made you want to sit down and stay. Instead, I walked on, past the new apartment blocks going up near the river, past the bus stop where a go explore card would give you unlimited buses all day for a dollar fifty, until I reached the boardwalk along the Maroochy River. A pelican stood on a pylon, wings half-open to dry. I took a photo and kept moving.
It was mid-afternoon by the time I got back to the flat. I had intended to spend the rest of the day packing, but the light was too good to waste. I grabbed a towel and a book and walked the hundred metres to the beach at Mooloolaba. The winter sun was warm enough to lie in, though the water would have been bracing. A few families were building sandcastles near the flags, and a couple of kids were body-surfing the small shore break. I sat on the sand, reading a chapter, watching the occasional whale spout on the horizon. The temperature hovered around nineteen degrees — a perfect winter's day. I thought about the cost of a coastal winter like this: a flat for fourteen hundred a month, a meal out for twenty-five, a bus ride for fifty cents. The numbers were starting to feel like home.
Back at the flat, I made a simple dinner with groceries from the supermarket down the road — pasta, a jar of passata, a sad-looking bag of salad that had seen better days. The total for the week's shop came to about ninety dollars, which was cheaper than eating out every night. I ate on the balcony as the sky turned from gold to pink to a deep, powdery blue. The wind had dropped, and the sound of the surf was a low, even pulse. I washed the dishes, swept the floor, and packed my bag properly this time. The ute was loaded; the spare tyre was checked; the oil was topped up. Tomorrow, I'd point it north.
One last thing before bed. I walked up to the Point Cartwright lookout one more time, just to see the stars. The sky was clear and sharp, the Southern Cross low over the water. I could see the lights of a ship on the horizon, and below, the gentle white of the surf on the reef. I stood there for a minute, letting the quiet settle in. This coast had been good to me. It had slow mornings and long walks, whales and wildflowers, and the kind of weather that makes you believe winter is just a rumour. But the road was calling. Cairns was eighteen hours away, and the reef was waiting.
I turned back toward the flat, the path lit by a half-moon. My flight of stairs, the key in the lock, the creak of the door. I set my alarm for six. Everything I've talked about — the walks, the cafes, the bus fares, the whale-watching trips — is in the episode notes, if you want to plan your own Sunshine Coast slow-down. Right now, though, I'm going to sleep with the window open, listening to the sea. G'day for now.
Tomorrow, I drive north. The weather window is open, and the ute's tyres are good. I've got a playlist of Queensland country music, a cooler full of water and fruit, and a full tank of diesel. I don't have a fixed plan past Bundaberg, and that feels exactly right. The road is the plan. I'll tell you all about it in the next episode.
There's a particular moment on this kind of journey when you stop being a visitor and start being a traveller — not because you've seen everything, but because you've accepted you never will. The Sunshine Coast taught me that. It gave me its whales, its wildflowers, its fifty-cent buses, and its winter light. I'll carry it north with me, the way I carry the taste of that snapper and the sound of the surf. Cairns is waiting. The reef is waiting. And I'm ready. See you out there.
That's all for this episode. If you're planning your own slow road up the Queensland coast, the show notes have the details — where I stayed, what I spent, how to book a whale-watching trip, and how to get a go explore card for a dollar fifty a day. I'll be back in a few days from somewhere up the track. Until then, I'm Jack Thornton, and this has been the Australia Travel Podcast. G'day.