I walked down to Hyams Beach on one of those rare days when the universe seemed to have temporarily got its notes in order.

The sun was warm without being murderous, the water was that ridiculous Jervis Bay green, and the sand so white it felt vaguely aggressive.

Despite my well-documented and entirely rational fear of sharks, I went in. I knowingly entered the natural habitat of the thing I’m afraid of, then spent the whole time wondering if every shadow was a fin.

Still, I floated. And after a while, something inside me began to loosen.

There are days when you carry yourself around like a badly packed suitcase. Aches, worries, old conversations, things you should have said, things you definitely shouldn't have said, and the general accumulation of being a person.

Then the ocean gets hold of you and somehow makes it feel better.

I lay back in the shallows and let the sun warm my face. For once there was nothing to fix, achieve or prove.

A little way up the beach, three adults sat together. I had no idea who they were. Friends, family, lovers, bank robbers. Possibly some combination of all four.

But something was happening between them. No shouting or dramatic gestures, just a glance, an uncomfortable posture, a little emotional distance. The sort of drama we're all remarkably good at hiding.

Then one of them stood up and walked away. The other two stayed sitting.

I watched for a moment, then turned back towards the water. Whatever was happening between them belonged to them. There was something strangely beautiful about seeing sadness without needing to own it. Maybe that's one of the privileges of being a stranger.

So I lay back in the shallows, trying not to get eaten, while the sun warmed my face and the rest of the world temporarily lost its grip on me.

A perfect day.

And, for a little while, a perfectly quiet mind.

Check out the close-up!

Oil on stretched canvas / 70cm x 50cm / framed in Tasmanian Oak and ready to hang.