Gran’s warnings about falling asleep in the sun was mostly ignored during the hot summer days of my youth. She’d warned me of brain cells frying and skin that looked like a roast chook. It wasn’t until the summer I went away with my best friend’s family that I finally realised she was on to something.
Being grown-up pre-teens, we were mostly left to our own plans during the sweltering days of post-Christmas summer. An intake of fresh air brought no relief as heat radiated from the sandy beach alongside the caravan park. This park had been my friend’s family’s summer-time home for as long as I’d known her, but this was the first year I’d been allowed to come.
I felt older, more mature—free. And we’d been given lip-gloss and sparkly eye-shadow for Christmas. We were so grown up.
Mostly we’d keep to ourselves, reading books, walking into town to buy lollies and ice-cream and shyly check out the sun-kissed surfers. These muscular boys with bronzed skin were a different tribe to the country farm-boys we were used to. They were either shirtless or adorned with brand-name tank tops: Rip Curl, Jag, Mambo, Billabong. These guys were the ultimate in cool.
We never quite worked up the confidence to talk to them. We probably seemed like little kids to them; they never even looked at us. So, mostly we spent our time on the beach. In those days the beaches were a quieter. Less hectic. It wasn’t difficult to stake out your own little area. Spread your gear around and that turf was yours.
Unfortunately, or so we felt then, our stake was right next to the rest of the family. We tried to look like we weren’t with them. But with siblings running to and fro, and our need for drink and food, we probably didn’t succeed.
And it was those siblings that first told me that gran may have some truth in her words. It was a lazy afternoon, the sting in the sun had sent most adults and young children indoors but us pre-teens had decided to stay. We’d propped ourselves up on lilos (air-matresses) covered in towels to reduce the heat. We had two bottles of water and a dwindling supply of jubes. Our bodies were well covered in Reef Oil – an SPF free body lotion that smelt like a Hawaiian night and guaranteed our tanning success.
We fell asleep.
I woke to the gentle prodding and an innocent voice asking why I was the same colour as a raspberry paddle-pop. As I went to sit up, I felt nauseous and flopped back down. A puzzled little face looked at me and called her mum.
‘Girls,’ a motherly voice spoke. ‘What have you done! Oh, no. What will your parents say. Wake up.’
My friend woke up crying, ‘Ouch, ouch, ouch.’ Her skin, which was fairer than mine, had already begun to blister. I was aware of an increasing pain as I struggled to sit up. I felt like I’d been lashed from top to bottom but only on the rear side of me. As I stood up, I glanced down and could see a creeping redness to the sides of my legs. I felt faint. I fell to the ground.
I vaguely remember being carried to the caravan. I remember hearing snippets of conversation regarding sun, dehydration and silly girls. It wasn’t until the next day when I woke in intense pain in hospital that I realised the severity of what happened.
I could hear my friend breathing softly in the next bed—moaning with agony in her sleep.
I was told my parents were on the way, and if I was lucky, I’d be released tomorrow or the next day. My body was slippery – covered in a cream whose scent tickled my noise. I felt so weak, and ashamed. Ashamed I’d caused so much trouble to everyone. Ashamed my family were having to drive three hours to get me.
I wished Gran was here. I felt like I needed one of her all-encompassing hugs (although I knew I was in too much pain for that). I just wanted to tell her, that finally I realised she was right—but it had taken the loss of a few brain cells, and skin that looked far less tasty than a roast chook.