I suddenly discovered how much at home I felt. I was sitting on a chair in the outside bar of the restaurant called Thai Me Kangaroo Down, which specialized in Thai food. I was in Coolum Beach in Queensland, Australia. It was spring, so it was 26 C. To my way of thinking, being a Canadian, the weather was hot.

It was not so hot in Tasmania, it was not hot in Adelaide either, but from Sydney north to Brisbane it was "getting there" as they say back home in the Maritimes. And by the time we reached Coolum Beach, and in our apartment, with a balcony that overlooked miles of gold coloured sand, and almost the entire South Pacific, there was no question of holding it back -- Hot was the word. But I have found that the worst thing you can do, as a Canadian, is mention that it is Hot. As Canadians, we should be honour-bound to hop about on burning coals before we give into the bastards by admitting we find it the least bit warm.

You see, I was sweating in Brisbane -- and they were saying how late the spring was in coming. I happened into a Pizza Hut, which in itself is as warm as most Maritimers can stand. And I decided to make conversation, which is another glaringly fatal flaw Maritimers are known for.

"Hot isn't it," I said to a man sitting beside me who looked like he had been baked in a potter's oven sometime in the sixties.

He looked at me, screwed up his eyes.

"OT? -- OT? -- where the bloody hell you from mate?"

"Canada," I whispered.

"Where?"

"Can-a-da," I whispered again.

"E-y," he said, in direction of the kitchen, "This Can-ad-e-an 'ere thinks it's -- OT! Martha -- Canada ere thinks it OTT!"

"WOT -- OTTT!" laughed a woman from behind the oven, though I didn't manage to see her face. "O -- where's he from?"

"CANADA"

"Ah, that explains it mate," she said somewhat disappointed, as if she was hoping for a raving lunatic to brighten her day, and discovered only a Canadian, wanting a pizza, olives on one side, pepperoni on the other.

The man then told me I should watch out for snakes and crocs and spiders. This had all been said to me before, so I tried to look nonchalant, even shrugging at the idea that snakes could get into shopping baskets and elevators. But my friend continued.

"We got the great white too mate -- WHITE DEATH -- a nasty customer he is. Why there are more things can kill you in Australia than anywhere I reckon," he said happily.

So I told him if he happened to go to Canada, he better watch out for -- icicles falling off buildings. I just blurted that out without thinking, but I knew I'd scared him. Why? Because there is one thing the average Australian cannot imagine -- and that is -40 degree weather. Any Canadian should keep this in mind if they ever get into an argument with an Australian over which country is less livable.

But we were now at Coolum Beach north of Brisbane. And the ocean was dazzling. Right whales on their journey to the South Pole, breached on the horizon, dolphins skimmed the surface, small towns dotted miles of uninterrupted shore, the stars in the southern sky were infinite. I knew why people lived here.

Besides we had been in Australia two months and had not yet been eaten by a snake, though I was almost sure I saw one coming toward me each time I shut off the bedroom light.

In fact for all the dire warnings we saw nothing dangerous at all.

We did get to see a stuffed salt water crocodile, about seven metres long, with a model of a grown woman standing beside it. Even looking at it could give you a shudder. I told my wife Peg if we went farther north -- to Darwin -- we could buy "If you get eaten by a croc while in Darwin" insurance, right along with our flight insurance. This is of course true, but Peggy said it was too far to go just for the benefit of the insurance. So we were to stay at Coolum and relax in its unbridled warmth and generosity. I suppose what is most beautiful about Australia, is that the Aussies themselves seem so much like Maritimers, Maritimers with suntans and accents, who were forced into paradise by the British justice system. They are friendly, lovable, and kind. Besides, they know their beer, their sport, their tattoos, and their songs. They also hate almost everything we hate, which is a real indicator of closeness (politics, GST, capital cities, snobbish pretence and biker wars).

Not many though have gone swimming in the Bay of Fundy. I could tell this when they called the water we swam in on those fine spring mornings cold.

"It's still a bit fresh don't you think mate?"

To us Maritimers, it was a bath with large waves, some undertow you had to pay attention to, and a shark net 50 metres off shore. For the first few days I swam, I did not know what the shark net was there for. When I discovered it to be the net that kept sharks from coming in contact with swimmers, I had only one question.

"What happens if a shark gets through the net?"

"Oh then we ring a bell mate," the lifeguard said.

I thought of this the next morning when I found myself closer to the net than the shore, and saw the shark net's buoy bobbing in the swell. Looking down I could see 10 metres beneath me. I began to assess my chances.

"If a shark got through the net -- it would be something like a race," I thought. "The little bell would jingle like we were at a starter's gate. I'd have about a 20-metre head start on the nasty customer. Who would reach the shore first?"

Well, what was the point of pondering it too long? Best to go in and get a tan. On one of the most beautiful beaches in the entire world, one could suspend time all afternoon. And life really was too short.

For information on Australia, phone (800) 333-0139. Web: http://www.australia.com.

David Adams Richards won a Giller Prize for his most recent novel, Mercy Among the Children.