Hot. Stifling hot. Each breath burns past flared nostrils and dries beyond dried lips, parched and cracked. No breath can refresh. No liquid can rehydrate relief.
Locked inside to shelter from the extremes of the enduringly, weary weather with machines of artificial air barely propelling enough cool, working overtime to blow dry and stale. A lion caged within a darkened box in the searing desert. No air. Just dry. Hot beyond hot to wipe out bodies flat, to burn gardens crisp yellow and black.
Until we begin our search, a trek for relief.
A drive and another machine blaring cool, and a begrudging trudge up a hill loaded with towels, sunscreen and umbrellas, and eskies stocked with ice, water and fresh, delectable apricots and peaches from the garden.
We’ve reached the peak. I see it now. An aquamarine calling our name in vivacious chime, in enchanting, come-hither splash.
Skip and trip over hot sand radiating a sweltering heat, where droplets fall from every crevice and pore. Burning and blistering, we dump the load and go to the beckoning.
One, two, three, four, five – in! Soft currents break against me. Rippling, flipping … tantalising to tease my skin. Tickling to titillate.
Deeper and deeper and more refreshing they break. Growing in rolls, waves of cool.
Invigorating, shimmering and splashing, cooling the extreme.
Relief to feel revived!
It’s the fourth straight day of 45 degrees Celsius plus, also known as 113 degrees Fahrenheit plus.