In the latter months of 2019, Australia had been ravaged by terrible bushfires in one of the worst seasons ever experienced.

Down the NSW South Coast in the quiet, out of the way holiday town of Bawley Point, the fires had already come roaring past in the first week of December, but thanks to the luck of a timely wind-change and the skill and dedication of the Rural Fire Services, it was spared from disaster - though it wasn’t all good news.

Once the fires receded, they’d lost several properties along the outskirts of town, and swathes of verdant bushland.

Despite this, the threat of the fire returning was ever-present. And this time, maybe they wouldn’t get so lucky.

It was here we came to celebrate the New Year. Ten adults, two babies, and a dog sharing space in a tiny house, a shed, a tent, and a van.

We arrived in late afternoon the day before New Years Eve, having driven through the remains of trees charred black from the fires only a few weeks before.

And it had been a weird experience, seeing first-hand this devastation we’d heard so much about from the safety of Sydney, something we weren’t associated with at all.

But now we were here, seeing it for ourselves. And it was sombre in the car, driving past these burnt out husks, minds overwhelmed by the razed landscape we found ourselves in, witnessing the rampage these fires had wrought upon this land.

The mood upon arrival was high, with hugs and laughter and the usual exclamations of joy when friends of years reunite once again. But it was also tinged with tension.

We knew things could turn bad in an instant, but now wasn’t the time to worry about it. We all had made the deliberate choice to come down despite the warnings. We felt the fires that had ripped through in early December was a natural line of defense should the fires flare up again. But that didn’t stop the concern from being far from our thoughts.

It was also the first time I was meeting pretty much any of these people, so there was that sense of anxiety you get when meeting people for the first time - the need to make a good impression, to be social and open, to show them your worth.

But that anxiety I had about entering into a group that had been friends for decades or longer was unfounded (as is normally the case), as I was welcomed with open arms and warmly brought into the embrace of their lives.

So that first night was spent in a bubble of catch-ups and comradery as we made dinner and talked deep into the night.

New Years Eve dawned hot and still. Overnight, bushfires further south had made major runs, forcing the closure of the main arterial road connecting the towns of the South Coast with major cities and support, and over-running small towns and communities - towns normally associated with idyllic holidays now indelibly inked into the minds of all Australians as the face of the tragedy unfolding: Cobargo. Moruya. Mallacoota. Batemans Bay. Bermagui. Mogo.

Further north in Bawley, the air was reasonably clear - there was a definite haze on the horizon - but the smoke had not yet arrived and the mood, though not jubilant, was light.

We had heard of the fires further south and knew we were in danger of an ember attack, but that hot and bright morning, it wasn’t a big concern.

Instead we did what every Australian along the coast does on those hot summer days: we went to the beach.

The sand was scorchingly hot, forcing us to run towards the ocean, cursing the burning sand on our bare feet, only to be stopped in our tracks by the frigid embrace of the ocean.

The waves were tumbling over and over, and the strong currents were sweeping all the swimmers braving the water northwards towards the rocky headland that Bawley takes it’s name from.

But still we ran and jumped and frolicked in this rushing, pounding water.

Soon we were satiated and satisfied, but up the Point we could see the surf was still pumping with huge waves rolling in and crashing against the rocks, so we gathered our belongings and clambered over rocks to watch the surfers conquer waves almost double their height.

There is such beauty in watching people harness the sheer power of the ocean.

The initial build up as their arms twirl and their legs pump, pushing themselves at just the right moment to get captured in the momentum and catapulted forward. And if they time it right, the light jump from flat to feet in mere seconds, balancing on their boards of polyurethane and fibreglass, guiding it along the wave into the barrel and out the other side.

But if they time it wrong, then moments of sheer panic and exhilaration overcome them as they find themselves plummeting down the face of a wall of rushing water before being eaten up and spat out the other side.

With epic sets rolling through, we were entranced by this dance; the rising heat of the day building to its crescendo and the threat of bushfires far from our thoughts.

Watching those surfers bob in the ocean, chatting amongst themselves in the glare of the afternoon sun was both calming and riveting.

We were too engrossed in the stories unfolding before us to consider what stories may be happening mere kilometres away.

Until through the heavy air we heard the distinctive noise of a machine in flight.

And as we all looked to the skies, we spotted Elvis, the famous air crane helicopter used in bushfire suppression, lumbering overhead.

Everyone on the Point turned to watch as one as it flew past, knowing it was heading south to fight the fires that had so ravaged those communities down the coast. Knowing it was one of the key weapons used in this war that had been waged for these seemingly endless months gone by.

People pointed.

People stared.

People spoke amongst themselves and watched as Elvis slowly dwindled away into the distance, the thudding of its blades fading until once again all we could hear was the roar of the surf.

And it was back to this surf they turned.

Deliberately turning their backs to the reminder of the very real threat, a physical barrier to help push it from their minds to try and find simple joy on this final hot day of 2019 in what had once been, and what will be again, an oasis along the coast.

It was then we too turned, but instead of facing away from the threat, we made our way back along the headland home, but we couldn’t resist one final swim at Bawley Beach - where families and children jumped from The Gantry into water filled with burnt leaves and bark and laughter filled the air.

It was only once we returned home, salt-covered and sun-kissed, that we realised the fires were closer to home than we had thought.

The power was out.

Phone reception gone.

We were cut off with no news or knowledge of what was going on, or what was happening.

And that was when the anxiety started to set in.

At first it was okay.

We thought it might just be a standard power outage and soon it would be restored.

It just made things a little bit harder, that’s all.

But when early afternoon made way to early evening and the day turned dark with a sky of orange, our concern increased.

Still no word had come about what was happening.

Still no idea was had about what was going on around this isolated community.

Were the fires coming back this way? What was happening in the neighbouring areas? How long would we be without power for? Or water? Or phone reception? If the roads are closed, how can we escape back to safety? If the fires come back, would we even be warned? As far as we knew, the local brigade was further down south and we were unprotected.

Exposed.

Alone.

Luckily we had a gas bottle for the barbecue so were still able to make food, and had enough supplies to last a few days.

But what had intended to be a celebration of another year gone by with friends turned into something a little more anxious.

And so as day became night, we gathered inside for a muted celebration, with many slowly drifting off to bed before the clock struck midnight.

The mood low, we went to sleep with our thoughts, not knowing what tomorrow might bring.