I was instantly aware that I was in the presence of something. There is something – I don’t know what it is – about the sound of the hollow roar, the misty spray, the gentle, rhythmic lapping like a kiss on the lips of the earth. There is something about the salt in the air mixed with the scent of the bush – which is probably just freshness, openness, the smell of purity above the ground-moving and pushing constantly, twirling around me with a spirit of its own.

The waves looked ripped out of a vacation add for Hawaii, they were so shockingly blue. But they were Australian and storming furiously high, white-tipped, rolling like a hungry tongue towards the beach, towards me. I watched in silence, letting the sound of the ocean overwhelm me. I was visiting Phillip Island with others, but I paid them no attention as they passed me on either side. There was something, and I was keen to absorb it.

Just fifteen metres away from the shoreline, the sand rose steeply into a dune, meeting the bush and a cliff at a juncture where sand stopped and rock and plant life began. The brown and green continued until it hit the sky, far away in the horizon. Huge pieces of rock that had presumably fallen from their original home on the cliff peninsula to my left stuck out of the water; tens of them littered the shallow sea, becoming smaller as they moved farther from the shore. They were like little islands, their islanders birds and algae.

I stopped on the beach and stood for a minute. I needed solitude to absorb the atmosphere. I needed quiet from human presence to reach the part of me that felt like it could stay here all day. When the voices faded, the monstrous sound of the ocean filled my ears and my mind entirely. I subconsciously began rocking my feet to the rhythm of the waves crashing – tilting back as they hurled at me, letting the reaching arms of oncoming water push me back, and then tilting forward as the wave receded. I hovered over the darkened sand, watching the white foam of the wave tips slowly dissolve from the beach into the air.

When I looked up again, the contrast between intimate detail and the massiveness of the ocean struck me. I could see forever. Dark clouds lined the horizon, but I paid them hardly any attention, for the sky above me was blue and I was underneath the sun, and forever seemed a long way away.

We climbed an enormous amount of stairs to reach the top of the cliff and walked along its ridge for ten minutes, which was parallel with the line that divided water from sand. On my right was the water, stretching in all directions until it hit the sky, which was dome-like above me, though I knew it had no shape, no form, no restrictions or definitions. The two blues seem to mirror each other, wave patterns similar to the movement of clouds and the shape of the clouds vaguely familiar of patterns found in the sand at the bottom of shallow water – small ripples that have been caressed into form by the waves.

The smell of green was in the air on top of the cliff, of brand new oxygen, freshly released from the carbon-eating species that were in the billions just in the space I could see. The plant life to my left was low and dense, crawling and spreading like a flood over the shape of the earth underneath it.

We reached our destination– a small, cleared-out landing on the base of the peninsula. I watched the surf churn and rise, then carry tens of metres before breaking, rolling up the beach and sliding back into its body. The spray from the places where the water hit the peninsula’s tip made huge noises, as if the ocean itself was protesting, roaring for being stopped short. It hissed as separated water particles hit halfway up the huge rock and slithered down. Smaller rocks merely disappeared under the dominating current, emerging for a few seconds only to be blanketed again.

However, the water only held my attention for five minutes; dark clouds on the horizon loomed closer, threatening. I strained my eyes and could see thin sheets of rain connecting the low grey ceiling with the water underneath it. Our guide, finishing his lunch, followed my gaze and realised the intensity of the storm that was headed our way. The horizon seemed to be closing before us, the air was so dense with falling water. It was hard to see through the storm to the other side. “I think we should run!” he cried. And we did.

I bounced happily along the coastal trial, passing the others, leading the train of panicking sightseers, my eyes on the path in front of me, watching out for tricky rocks and roots that may have tried to trip me. As I jumped the last few steps and hit the sand – which was so deep I instantly slowed – the sound of rain was next to me, just meters away, and then it was upon me. I zipped up my jacket, pulled the hood over my head and latched it closed with clenched fists, trying desperately to keep the water from getting in.

But this wasn’t just rain. The wind blew it nearly horizontal, and my face felt as though it was under attack by tiny needles. The same sensation ripped over my legs, protected by only a thin layer of jean, which was nearly soaked already, just thirty seconds after getting hit. They sagged off my hips, the ends getting caught under my heels as I stumbled through the sloppy sand, sweating and puffing but freezing and wet.

I ran backwards in an attempt to save my face. Not far behind me were a few grimacing boys, and behind them, people from my group struggling to maintain a jog, and behind them, the ones who had already given up and were walking.

Running suddenly became much harder. I turned to look where I was and found that I had been pushed to the edge of the cliff and was on my way to running up it. The wind had ordered me in the direction it was blowing. I put my hands down; my hood flew off, my hair was dripping in an instant. I dropped my gaze and headed straight into the weather, hunched over and leaning forward like a bull lowering his horns to fight.

And then I stopped running. Escape was impossible. I realised that it was too late for any sort of self-preservation because there wasn’t a part of me that was going to stay dry. I lifted my face into the rain and let the water soak me entirely. The wind slowed and it wasn’t painful anymore. Members of my group passed me, groaning and whimpering miserably. I started laughing; there was no point in being upset. We were soaked, drenched in the sporadic nature of the earth, and if we were cold, it was evidence that we were alive. And I didn’t want to hide from the storm anymore. I raised my arms and embraced it.