Day is dawning. A thin incandescent line erupts through the back of the canvas. A golden shudder signals the presence of the life force of our city - the sun. The sun and the sea. Two magnificent entities synonymous with Durban, Durbs by the capacious sea under the fiery sun.
When I meet Brett downstairs at my beachfront flat, I burst out laughing. He's wearing cycling shorts in turquoise. "Old school,'' he explains.
We have decided to welcome this day by taking a lazy wind on our bicycles around the Durban beachfront. Our plan is to ride both along the Golden Mile as well as next to the actual beaches. It's early but beautiful. What could be mistaken for a school of seals sliding in and out of the waves comes slowly into focus as wet-suited surfers navigate the early morning water on North Beach.
One, two, three, 18, 30 of them are out there - and it's only 5.20am. Two young female longboarders stride past me, the one rolling her head clockwise, warming up for the morning session. An old man with what looks like a sand weedeater scours the shoreline, right ear fixed on the beeping sound emanating from his metal detector.
We stop next to a group of middle-aged overweight women, breasts hanging over their lacy bras, as they wash the salt off their limbs under the shower after an early romp in the sea.
The three young dreadlocked dudes who create the Disney-like lions, wildebeest and bird creatures in the sand along the piers are stirring. They head along to a nearby tap, drink and rub their faces, ready for a day of carving and patting in exchange for a couple of hopeful coins from a tourist or three.
"Should we move on?" inquires Brett. Brett the barman, Brett the South Beach local, Brett, the only one of my friends who would wake this early to enjoy one of the saner pleasures our city offers.
We get back on our bikes and cruise further along the coastline. Around us puff joggers, speed walkers and casual strollers. Elderly couples wrapped in quiet conversation, mysterious Muslim women in Nike shoes and buffed young 20-somethings who run barefoot on the sand, weights in hand, are all out, keeping their heart rates healthy and their thighs toned.
We cruise past the near deserted skate park and then on to Beach Cafe which is lightly pumping out Cafe Del Mar melodies. Waiters drag tables and chairs out and a cleaner brushes some windswept litter from the entrance. More and more fishermen arrive in banged up Ford Cortinas, fishing rods sticking out the back, the smell of bait and coffee from flasks is shared amid joviality.
We cruise past the closed Mini Town and take to Marine Parade. The "Bush'', as it is known, on our right is hiding the beachfront's best kept secret, the resident Battery Beach alarm clock, a cock-a-doodle-doo and, boy, is he going for it, making sure the residents of flatland won't be late for work.
Behind the fence a slim man dressed in khaki, camouflage style, slowly sprinkles seeds on to the ground and out of the trees creep mother hens and some chicks to partake in breakfast.
Brett and I talk about the rumours of "Bush babies" in the bush. Bush babies? Okay, let me explain. First, the chickens are refugees of certain groups/ religions/cults sacrificial rituals. There is a beachfront brigade of animal activists who rescue them from a quick throat slicing and throw them over the fence where they now live a life of luxury, fed by locals.
The bush babies were a phenomenon a couple of years back, when orphaned youths or township escapees cut the fence surrounding the "Bush'' and hid out, only noticeable by the spirals of camp fire smoke that trickled up during colder evenings. But they have disappeared over the years, either through forced removal or perhaps because of the Bush's newest occupant... a giant leguaan.
Lynne, the bird lady, is at the end of the pier separating Battery from Snake Park every morning without fail.
Hundreds of seagulls, Indian Mynahs and pigeons fly around her small frame which cuts a dynamic silhouette against the horizon.
Plastic containers holding the remnants of last night's dinner are scattered around and the birds squawk, squabble and push each other to devour the tasty morsels.
"I have the people in my block to thank," remarks Lynne. "Every morning I find containers outside my door filled with food for the birds. It's wonderful - just as wonderful as the beachfront in the morning. Magical."
We leave her to her feathered friends and make our way back along the Golden Mile's Snell Parade, passing through a place where a plethora of races and cultures enjoy one of the most interesting, welcoming and, more importantly, unpretentious pieces of coast our country is blessed with.
The beachfront is all about watching. Watching the girls in bikinis, watching the boys in baggies, watching the pros handle a wave, watching the fisherman watching the sea, watching the Zionists give thanks to their maker, watching the Shembes baptising their brethren, watching the lifeguards watching the swimmers, watching the carguards watching your car, watching the cameras watching you.
Arriving back at our starting place in front of Joe Kools, we deliberate whether to head south to Addington or catch a take-away Wimpy coffee and toasted cheese and tomato sarmie to eat on the pier.
The latter wins out this morning (due mostly to the rash Brett has developed from his lycra shorts).
We stand at the end of the pier, Brett holding my waist as I Titanic my arms into the expanse of the Indian Ocean in front of us, the sun nearly in full bloom.
It's a beautiful ocean out there and a beautiful city that lives on its shore. As we watch the canoeists and bodyboarders navigate the tide, we know that the real beauty lies in the fact that to watch it all doesn't cost a cent.