The nagging northerly breeze fanned up an idea which had been burning in the recesses of our minds for some time.

My old mate Hally and I decided the time was right for a quick escape to Double Island point for some shelter from the wicked wind and hopefully some clean, fun waves.

We had been promising to do it for ages but, with family and work, it was a plan which fell frequently for more pressing issues.

However, on Sunday, the planets aligned, a window opened and we fled on the early-afternoon low tide for the distant corner.

As we hummed comfortably along in Hally’s modern, air-conditioned four-wheel-drive with a sensible amount of beer and a delicious chicken and salad dinner stowed away for later, we couldn’t help but hit reverse in our minds and reflect on expeditions past which weren’t so ordered.

It didn’t take long before we were drowning out Paul Kelly’s Dumb Things with loud laughter about some of the more stupid performances of our own, like the time I took the wrong sleeping bag up there in the middle of winter.

It was my first introduction to Double Island after arriving on the Sunshine Coast to work at the Daily about 18 years ago.

Hally and another journalist mate, Youngy, decided they wanted to share this special paradise with me where they had forged fond fishing, surfing and camping memories since their childhoods.

At the time of the adventure they both had four-wheel-drives – albeit microscopic ones – Hally, a Russian-contrived Niva, and Youngy, a Suzuki-built device which could have doubled as a hair dryer.

We ended up cramming into the Suzuki because, from memory, the Niva had succumbed to one of its idiosyncratic little bugbears that weekend – another seized engine.

Being the only one of the trio who rowed surfboats, Hally was consigned to the front passenger seat, the roomiest available, where he managed to squeeze his ample frame by positioning his knees firmly against his ears.

A downside to this was he was unable to fully appreciate the Sunnyboys tapes which crackled from the car’s cassette player as we journeyed up Teewah Beach.

On the positive side, however, the disturbing grinding of gears would have been equally muffled as Youngy did his best to pilot the red buzz-box with an unrelenting avalanche of camping gear spilling from the back seat into the cockpit.

I did my best to arrest the flow from my difficult position at rear, lying longways across the bags, eskies and fishing gear with my nose pressed against the vehicle’s roof lining.

The plan, once Hally corrected his spine and I straightened my nose, was to eventually build a big fire and sleep under the stars – as our pioneering forefathers, the ones who were also so ill-prepared as to not have tents – would have done.

After some surfing and fishing, a few beers and some dinner, we stoked the fire and settled down for the night.

I could hear the comforting sounds of the boys zipping themselves into their cosy bags and bracing themselves for the briskness to follow, when the full horror of what I had done unfurled.

The sleeping bag I had borrowed from my then girlfriend Tracy – who I forgave enough to eventually marry – was her childhood one which, despite looking very cute with its Star Wars motifs, barely reached above my waste.

As I lay there shivering in the sand counting down the long, sleepless hours to sun-up, tortured by the blissful snoring of my companions, I wondered what difference a bigger sleeping bag would have made.

It was a moot point, really, because I wouldn’t have been able to fit it in the car.

There was no such trouble sleeping on Sunday night. The weather was balmy, the sleeping bags were appropriate and we were completely exhausted from nearly four hours in the water sharing fabulous waves with only a handful of other surfers.

On sunset we took a couple of beers up to the headland, reclined on our elbows and looked back along the vast coastline blanketed by sea mist and soft purple light to Noosa and beyond, where our kids were probably having their baths and getting ready for bed.

We kissed them goodnight in our minds and returned to our campsite for dinner, fireside banter and bed.

We were up with the sun at 4.30am in order to beat the advancing tide home in time for work.

It was short and sweet, which is a combination I have nothing against … unless, of course, it is in reference to Star Wars sleeping bags.