There’s a particular kind of public shower you only ever find on Australian beaches, the “ten-second miracle.” A metal button, a stubborn pole, and a short burst of fresh water that feels like someone rationing relief in tiny, timed-out blessings. If you’ve ever swum on the Queensland coast in summer, you know exactly the one I mean. If you haven’t, you’ll know them by the end of this story.

This week’s Drifting Note begins with that button, that tch sound, that spray of water that might arrive warm from sun-baked pipes or icy enough to make your soul momentarily leave your body. We drift through my gentle morning chaos of dogs waiting for runoff, locals performing the covert art of sand extraction, and the vast, unbothered sweep of the Pacific doing its eternal jam in the background.

I get a glimpse of my brother under his own ten-second shower after a surf, a grin, a jolt of cold water, a whole childhood folded into one brief moment of salt and sunlight. It’s funny how tiny, ordinary rituals can open trapdoors to the past.

This episode is a small love letter to that ritual, the rinsing, the resetting, the way water hands you back a piece of yourself. I hope it brings you the same warmth it brought me … cold water and all.

Do you have a place, object, or daily habit that acts like a time machine for you, the way a beach shower did for me?

What’s the most unexpectedly emotional thing you’ve ever experienced in a completely public, completely ordinary setting?

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