A day at the beach: ‘I found myself in a canoe on mushrooms, with a boombox blasting Mariah Carey’

Every February, we invited people to camp, and we’d book about 20 local acts – always trying to make these events really special. Sometimes we created interesting collaborations; other years there were one-off performance art events.

But finally the time came: the house was put on the market. We’d have one last send-off, so we decided to hold that year’s event on the water.

We hired a violinist and trumpeter – and a group of fiddlers – to lead everyone down from the grass to the shore. We formed a conga line, all dancing down the street, down the steep little cliff path towards the beach, where we were met by a surprise.

Musician Oliver Mann was there to greet us, in the water just above his knees, serenading us with opera. The water was so still it looked like glass; you could see his reflection so perfectly. We all lay in the water – it was one of those stinking hot days – listening to his offer.

We had timed it so well too. The sun was just setting – it looked as if the bay was on fire. We live in a painting, I thought. It was one of those moments when you realise just how gorgeous Australia is.

From there, everyone started partying as night fell. We’d set up a sound system and we danced until the early hours. (Dancing on sand was, of course, an epic leg workout.)

I have snatches of memories from that party: points where slowed-down bootleg remixes started playing, and it felt like everything was happening in slow motion; lying in the boat shed with my head melting into the steps.

People slowly peeled away, returning to the campsite, and at sunrise, there were only a few of us left. As usual, I’d wandered off – which is something I tend to do at parties – and I found myself in a canoe, high on mushrooms, with a boombox blasting Mariah Carey.

I cannot explain how I got into that canoe – but there I was, enjoying the bliss while someone else paddled out.

If I’d had my senses about me, I would’ve thought being out at sea in a tiny boat was a little bit dangerous. But the sun was rising. My friends were on the shore. You could see all the way down to the bottom of the sand. And Touch My Body was playing. So there was no fear – just the safest feeling.

That day, as we all woke up and started to recover, we made our classic morning-after meal: just three to four packets of mi goreng to yourself topped up with fried eggs and peas and butter. The meal you had when you knew you’d had the perfect evening.

I realised I had managed to work myself so hard that my legs were cramped and stiff as boards – well worth it for the night that was.

The ending was so bittersweet. We were never going to have this house again; it was the last party down that side of the coast where I’d spent my whole childhood.

But we’d had a beautiful moment, shared with everyone – a story we would tell in years to come.