I reached the northern headland and instead of following the rocks around to the Tessellated Pavement, I sat for a moment to watch the waves. The white water faded into deep turbulence as it hit the gutter and then reformed in thick dumpers on the inside sandbar. The surface of the gutter, framed by the dual banks of white water, looked silky, seemingly still, safe. During the day, if you look closely, you see pockets of sand-laden water churning busily beneath the surface. That night, it was flashes of bioluminescent light that marked the movement beneath. Little explosions of blue and green spun chaotically on the currents. The gutter is where the fish are. The sea is alive; it’s easy to forget.

It was three days until Christmas, I realised as I sat, which made it the night of the summer solstice. The bioluminescence took on a pagan mystique. Or maybe it was the ocean’s display of Christmas lights.

Eventually, stiffened by cold, I clambered to my feet and retraced my steps. Each time I pressed a foot into the sand of the tideline the pressure caused a spatter of bioluminescence to light up; the glimmers momentarily ghosted my feet, like shadows of light, before fading back into darkness.

I was infatuated by my experience of this phenomenon as a child when my family spent that wonderful, if not rather poignant (at least for me), Easter down the Great Ocean Road. I was at the stage of childhood where the magic of make-believe was fading; those holidays were my last hoorah, really, and I felt it—somehow knew it at the time.

An auntie once told me that if you’re walking along a path and the branches of the trees on either side form an arch over your head, you might step through that archway into fairyland. I would always close my eyes and take a breath before stepping through such leafy doorways, and for a few years there, once I was through, I could make everything sparkle that bit more with my mind’s eye, and I could see chittering movements on the edge of my vision. I read a book once that referred to them as ‘The Little Folk’, and that’s how I always thought of them as they scurried about the undergrowth, only perceptible if you weren’t looking at them directly. But on that Ocean Road trip, the magic was becoming more and more forced. It didn’t just happen; I was having to make it happen, and I knew that I was making it happen, which was leading me to the unpleasant conclusion that what was going on was me, and not them at all. So, you can imagine my relief when I experienced the bioluminescence.

‘It’s fairy dust,’ I insisted to my mother. ‘Look! It’s proof!’ Frantically, I ran and danced backwards, often tripping but never caring. All I wanted was to watch each glittering footprint fade. I wanted to see more, more, more, to prolong it, to prolong all of it, all of what it meant, all of what it allowed me to be, if only for that little bit longer.