But when you smell that first jasmine of October, or feel that first blast of dry air from an open car window in November, you realise you missed it. You missed the burn. Because underneath all the sweat, the spider fears, and the melted ice cream, there is a raw, beautiful, sun-drunk joy.

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.

Australian summer is a crucible. It tests your patience, your skin, and your sanity. It melts your chocolate and curdles your milk. It is too loud, too hot, too long.

There is no sky like an Australian summer sky at night. After the heat breaks—usually with a violent, theatrical thunderstorm that drops two inches of rain in twenty minutes and knocks out the power—you step outside. The Milky Way is a spill of diamond dust. The Southern Cross hangs low. A fruit bat (or "flying fox") flaps overhead like a leathery omen.

And yet. And yet.