The storm was clearing, the morning warm. On my way down to the jetty to do my tai chi, I met Roger, one of the apartment dwellers, climbing the steps on his way home. ‘I’ve been out fishing already,’ he said, ‘and I’ve had a swim.’ I just saw M, who moved in yesterday and said, ‘come on in, the water’s warm,’ so she jumped in for a swim too.
It was one of those idyllic, still summer mornings. Two women were cavorting in the water, chattiing and laughing. ‘Yes, it’s warm,’ they said.
The water was calling, no question of that. So I rang my swimming friend, and soon she and her husband joined me. ‘We were getting so hot in the garden,’ she said, ‘and your call came at the perfect time.’
So in we waded. We swam, we floated, we talked, we splashed around lazily. And we had a good catch-up, about her holiday in Cairns, my time at the bach . . .
Summer is the season of spontaneity. We are all playing truant, even when there’s work to be done. The water washed away my frustrations with computers, and for the whole hot summer’s day I felt refreshed on the inside.
There’s a phrase ‘bush telegraph’, which describes the way messages are conveyed when we are away from technology. From Roger to our new neighbour, to me, then my friends, the message travelled. When the tide is high and the water warm, the whole neighbourhood needs to know. Because tomorrow it may well be blowing and raining again (it was).