Then you emerge, salt-stung, and find a stray chip buried in the sand. A seagull watches you with the cold, predatory intelligence of a dinosaur.
On Christmas Day, you eat prawns and mangoes, not roast turkey. You drink bubbles on a deck while wearing a floral shirt and shorts. You listen to the Boxing Day Test on AM radio while the fan oscillates. You go for a swim at 9pm, the water still warm from the day, the streetlights reflecting off the black glass of the bay. australian summer
The nation pivots towards the coast. Beach traffic becomes a slow pilgrimage. In the carpark, families unpack a Noah’s Ark of gear: the Esky (ice, beer, orange quarters), the pop-up shade tent (will inevitably collapse in a light breeze), the reef-safe sunscreen, the thongs (footwear, not the other kind—though there is plenty of that, too). You wade into the Pacific. That first gasp when the water hits your groin is a baptism. For a moment, the sun's tyranny is broken. You duck under a wave and open your eyes to a sandy, green-gold universe. Then you emerge, salt-stung, and find a stray
You just have to wait for the southerly buster to arrive. You drink bubbles on a deck while wearing