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It’s 9pm on Friday at Surfers Paradise and a DJ on the main beach is playing a club mix of Reel 2 Real’s I Like to Move It as teenage boys wearing sunglasses shuffle enthusiastically on the sand.
This is the last night of schoolies, and it’s going to be large. The evening’s official costume theme is “good, evil, iconic”, which is open to wide interpretation. Someone is dressed as The Lorax, another as a Christmas tree.
For the past week, about 15,000 school leavers have descended on the Gold Coast to eat halal snack packs, drink copious amounts of sugary alcohol and sweat it out on the dancefloor.
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Among them is Brendan, 18, who extended his trip for an extra three nights because he’s been having such a great time since arriving from Brisbane.
Thursday night’s theme was “party animal”’, so he ended up with a novelty plush snake wrapped around his neck. “It was thrown around at the club last night, and I just ended up with it,” he says. “It’s my emotional support snake.”
To Brendan, the highlight of the week has been the people. “You meet so many, just going up to randoms and saying hi,” he says. “Everyone’s the same age, and everyone’s just here to have a good time.”
Surfers Paradise remains the largest destination for schoolies since the first party began on Broadbeach in the 1970s.
That’s despite the rising attraction of overseas destinations like Fiji and Bali, and the steady popularity of smaller beachside towns like Byron Bay and Lorne.
Things have changed, though, since the 70s.
Acting district director of the Queensland Ambulance Service, Justin Payne, says that although 479 patients were treated throughout the week, only 18 required hospitalisation, mostly for intoxication or minor injuries picked up after falling while dancing on the beach.
“A decade ago we’d have to transport around 40 people a night to the hospital system,” he says. “Seeing only 18 in a week for minor things is extremely positive.”
There were 20 arrests, acting chief superintendent Brett Jackson says, including for the possession of drugs and disorderly conduct. That figure is also down on previous years, attributed to a “changing culture” of “kids looking after each other” and image transformation.
In 2003, the Queensland government established a formal schoolies hub, not to encourage teenagers to the Gold Coast, but to manage the safety response. They say it has vastly reduced incidents.
For two weeks, roads in central Surfers Paradise are closed and traffic is diverted to accommodate the hub, which operates from 7pm until midnight every evening.
It feels a bit like the party version of an open air prison. The teenagers, all wearing identical fluorescent pink lanyards, are herded behind fencing that blocks off tourists, locals and “toolies” from the festivities.
Behind the fencing is the beach, a large makeshift stage and a series of tents offering cups of water, emergency assistance and welfare checks, including guided walks home. “Be safe and watch your mates,” posters lining the site’s boundaries read.
This is a no-booze and no-drug zone, but you wouldn’t know it from the carnival-like atmosphere. Judging by the number of slabs of beer under arms as the night begins to descend, they’ve had their fill before entering.
In the early afternoon, though, the streets are alarmingly quiet. Most schoolies sleep until midday. Around 2pm, sunburnt teenagers emerge to sit in the sweltering heat at an array of takeaway shops where they tuck into kebab shop deals – specific to schoolies – and plates of fried chicken.
Some frolic in the sea. A group of boys pass a friend from the night before and croak out “he’s alive” with a confident fist bump.
Mia, 17, who is staying at the Hilton, describes the daily routine as “low-key chill”.
“Basically, you wake up, go to the pool or just chill and watch TV, low-key just lying around. Then pre [drinks], room hopping, doing what you want to do.”
The Hilton is one of the biggest accommodation sites, and the only one to offer its own exclusive “pool party” events. Reportedly, parties in the upper-level penthouses, which cost $1,500 for the week, are the most coveted invites.
During the day, dozens of school leavers stretch out on cabanas like lizards and mill about in the pool, drinking Hard Rated (formerly known as Hard Solo) through plastic straws.
Joey, 18, dunks his friends in the water to cries of glee. He’s among a big group of boys who journeyed from Brisbane a week ago and are about to celebrate their last night. Asked what their plans are, he simply replies: “We’re having a big one.”
As night descends, things begin to turn a little weird.
Someone with a T-shirt reading “I love MILFS” stumbles along the sidewalk with their friends, one of whom is in a banana suit. McDonald’s is the centre of festivities. Outside, a local teen, Kane, 18, is offering free haircuts to school-leavers.
Will, 18, from Brisbane, is getting a checkered skullet (a mullet with checks shaved into the sides) engraved on his head. “I made a bet with my friends three years ago that if I got a checkered skullet they all had to get it,” he says by way of explanation. “Hopefully the ladies love it.”
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Down the road, a number of religious groups attempt to convert the youth, some preaching about Jesus, others warning of the rapture. Hare Krishnas are in attendance, and attract a large contingent due to their live music and upbeat demeanor.
A group of boys in novelty sombreros jump in on the action and begin dancing and singing alongside them. “Hare Krishna,” they call, leaping into the air and pumping their fists.
Piper, 18, and Maddie, 17, are among them, after just arriving from Brisbane. They’re “broke as”, so they’re here for one night only and will return to work for a 5pm shift on Saturday.
Asked what their plans are for the evening, they cheer: “clubs!”
“We have nowhere to stay, maybe we’ll sleep on the beach,” Piper says happily.
When plunged into the hedonistic Gold Coast, it’s easy to forget data suggesting fewer young Australians are drinking alcohol.
Shopfronts roll out neon signs promising schoolies specials, selling everything from singlets emblazoned with “eat, sleep, schoolies repeat” to bucket hats encouraging viewers to “be a flirt, lift your shirt”. Another simply reads: “warning: horny AF”.
Condom Kingdom, an adult entertainment store in the centre of town, capitalises heavily on the tourist trade, offering schoolies “survival kit” showbags filled with g-strings, condoms and lubricant.
Out the front of its store, staff on microphones call out for teens to try their Spin to Win gimmick, with prizes ranging from handcuffs to “boobie water bottles”. One teenage boy saunters up, takes a spin and comes away with a cock ring.
Viral sex workers Annie Knight and Lily Phillips are also here, under the guise of promoting safe sex after Knight and fellow content creator Bonnie Blue were kicked out last year for attempting to film content with “barely legal’” adults.
The duo pop up at a string of schoolies-affiliated venues and clubs, taking selfies with eager teenage boys and happily waving fluorescent glow sticks on the dancefloor.
Is this pornification of schoolies a promotion of consent and sex positivity? Or is it glorifying and exploitative, turning sexual experiences into conquests that grant boasting rights to your mates?
For their part, the Queensland government’s safe sex messaging is everywhere. The hub’s main stage flashes with a billboard reading: “Everyone has the right to feel safe. Groping without consent is assault.”
Mia, 18, says her group isn’t here for hook-ups. “We just want to be with our friends,” she says. “We’re for the girls.”
On Friday night, she’s at her hotel room getting ready to go out with her mates Mila, Charlie and Shaelynn, all from Brisbane. Empty instant noodle packets and vodka cruiser bottles litter the floor.
They got home at 5.30 this morning, and plan to do it again tonight. “When I look back on this, I’ll have Fomo [of future years],” Mila says. “I already want to come back.”
Seven clubs across Surfers Paradise are officially affiliated with schoolies, attracting about 1,500 people through the doors each night.
The lines will snake around the street when they open at 10pm. But until then, hundreds of schoolies descend on the beach hub, where I Like to Move It has just transitioned to AC/DC’s Thunderstruck.
Groups of volunteers that have worked around the clock for the past week take the stage to large cheers. The SES team is among them, dressed in full uniforms. Before returning to work, they start a small dancefloor on the sand to an electronic version of the tune Life is a Highway.
Together, the SES and school leavers wave their arms in the air, ecstatic under flashing lights, vastly different in age yet bonding over the shared sentiment of the song and the power of music. Life is a highway, and they’re going to ride it. All night long.
