While my poor body sweltered in the gridlock, I contemplated driving up Roeland Street, parking at Gardens Centre and taking a MyCiti Bus to Seapoint but I remembered that the covered parking would cost roughly the same as a tank of petrol. Meanwhile, Fine Music Radio told me that the Northern Line was down so train travel was chaotic, plus, schools had closed the day before, so youth were swarming the streets. To make it worse, it was day one of the Sevens Rugby bonanza. There was still a week or so before holidays began officially but clearly Dezemba had arrived. I was now drenched in sweat but there was nothing for me to do but sit vas. Traffic back to the Southern Suburbs was worse. I hadn’t budgeted my time for this. 

  My plan had been to do a few laps, then meet my friend Ronel in town for First Thursdays because she wanted to support someone opening a show at a Bree Street gallery. Ronel is the most supportive person I know. She is also the most put together person I know, in life and aesthetically. I act glamorous when wearing one extra accoutrement, like earrings or lipstick, but Ronel acts that way first thing in the morning, without any bells and whistles. That said, she is super into all the trimmings: earrings, lipstick, choker, nails, lashes and everything always goes together just right.

In the end, it took me two hours to drive 13km. The pool closed as I arrived. All the happy people, sated by sun and swim, flooded out as I seethed, silently swearing at every one of them. Especially the children.

I vented to my best friend, Raisa, via voicenote. She listened, but listlessly. She explained she had a heat-headache and was struggling to get ready for a twenty-six-hour call at Mitchell’s Plein hospital. Putting our complaints into perspective made me feel like a brat, but also pepped me up to continue my mission. Raisa has that effect because she’s always going on about how there’s no excuse for not achieving if your intentions are excellent.

I drove another 5km to Bakoven Beach. It took about twenty-seven minutes. By now, it was after 19h00; the sun was starting to drop, but the irreverent temperature refused to chill. No respect, not even for gravitational checks and balances. With seventeen minutes before dark, I grabbed my towel and raced down the steep stairs to the beach.

Being in the water was bracingly brilliant. For seven glorious minutes I felt the deep relief of success. Around me, the water was that unnameable grey-green of old people’s eyes and after taking what felt like ten thousand years to get to it, I bobbed about blissfully, submerging then popping back up, buoyed by the thought that this elixir was my reward for surviving the heat. 

Once my temperature and temper had a moment to cool off, I could appreciate the scenery, too. Bakoven is my favourite beach because it has these awesome giant boulders; they have a slightly prehistoric, perception-altering air about them that makes the views of the mountains shimmer. The sounds of nearby Camps Bay morphs magically and life feels like a mirage. Time flows yet doesn’t. Once, while basking on a boulder, I read Mishima’s The Sailor Who Fell Out of Grace With The Sea in one fell swoop.