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MILLIE

I’m going to throw up

Hot and sticky.

That’s how I’d describe the summer on the northeast coast of New South Wales.

Some days the air gets so thick, it feels like you’re wading through mud.

Mosquitos come out with a vengeance. Thunderstorms roll in across the ocean as the sun sets behind the mountains, and roar into the night. It’s my favourite time of the year.

Whilst it’s not officially summer in Australia for another six weeks, this afternoon’s storm is a clear sign of what’s coming for the next few months. Plenty of humid days, cracks of thunder that make you jump out of skin and the most impressive conditions for an amateur photographer like me.

I’ve followed all the rules; rain protection for my gear, including a lens hood that cost me way more than it should have.

I left my phone with my cousin Ellis in case it gets drenched, but she knows exactly where I am in case I’m unlucky enough to get struck by lightning.

All that’s left now is to get to my vantage point, the jagged rock face at the southern end of the beach.

The rain’s coming in sideways, but according to my trusty weather app, it’ll subside in minutes. The clouds will break for a short period, and I’ll have ideal conditions to snap some pictures of the waves against the horizon.

Battling the wind and rain, I march along the wet sand of Fingal Head Beach, clutching the camera around my neck to my chest. I’m wearing off-road sneakers with plenty of grip so I can clamber across the slippery rocks, and I do so with the finesse of a drunk llama.

Water splashes up and drenches me, my raincoat proving useless, and I steady myself against the larger rocks, wobbling slightly.

Sometimes I wonder what my parents would say if they could see their clumsy daughter climbing moss-covered cliff-faces, balancing between the edge of safety and the water that swallowed them whole.

I know what my aunt would say. She’d tell me to take a risk. Climb higher. I’ve never been much of a risk-taker, but for her, I’d do anything. She’s the main reason I came out here today.

I steady myself on a flat, wide boulder, widening my stance and squeezing every muscle I can to keep from toppling. The rain stings my cheeks and even though the clouds above me are an ominous grey, I can see a slither of sunlight trying to break through.

“Are you crazy?!”

The words sound like a figment of my imagination from the roaring wind, and I spin to face the source, spotting the dark hair of a man hovering in the water near the rocks below.

“What?” I shout.

The man yells something back, but I can’t make it out because I’m distracted by an unblinking pair of eyes in the rock formation below my feet. Is that a stonefish? A surge of water shoots over my shins as I’m staring at it, knocking me off kilter, and I plummet into the water below.

My heart hammers beneath my ribcage as I hit the surface and am swallowed up by a current so turbulent, I struggle to navigate which way is up. My camera thumps against my chest and cheek in quick succession, the strap twisting against my neck before flying off, disappearing into the torrent.

I’m a decent swimmer. Ever since my parents died, I made a point to make peace with the ocean.

I swam laps at school when the athletes had vacated the pool, so I had privacy to take my time.

Ellis and I used to see how many somersaults we could do in a row without coming up for breath.

When I lived on Hamilton Island a couple of years ago, I snorkelled in my spare time. I’m good with the ocean.

So were your parents.

I stamp out the intrusive thought as I break the surface and suck in an enormous breath.

The crack of sunshine is nowhere in sight and the cragged edges of the beach already metres away thanks to the force of the current.

Another wave batters my head and pushes me under, my arms and legs flailing in an attempt to stay afloat.

Panic officially sets in.

I’m going to die here. On an unpatrolled beach, closed because of treacherous conditions. I’ll be a twenty-second clip on the evening news. A local tragedy. Grieving Gold Coast woman falls to her death in search of the perfect shot like a fucking idiot.

I’m sure the news will enjoy the poetry of me drowning in the same ocean as my parents. If I wasn’t so terrified, I’d laugh at the irony.

Something tight wraps around my waist and my body surges, head breaching the water again. Glorious oxygen fills my lungs, and a pained groan accompanies my gasp. I’m battered as I’m dragged from the water to the shore, where I come to a halt like a sack of potatoes.

My focus is on the storm clouds above me until two whirlpools of green come into view. I note drenched, brown curls and a smattering of freckles across a crooked nose.

“You’re okay,” the man assures me. “You’re okay.”

“I’m going to throw up.” I sit up, hanging my head between my legs as I focus on slowing down my heart rate, desperately trying to avoid the sheer terror that ravaged my body seconds ago.

After a few moments, I lift my head to see the man watching me, the crease between his eyes, deep with concern. “You good?”

“I’m good,” I croak.

“Good.” He points his finger at my face like a parent scolding a child. “Now I can yell at you for being a fucking idiot.”