Do you think I could get a skin transplant?

'Maybe you're just not tanned because you've never tried to tan,' she said to me as we bounced along in the bus towards Henley Beach, circa summer 2004, the air conditioning struggling against the 39 degree heat that lashed against the windows.



'Maybe...' I mused, slathering myself in the standard inch-thick layer of SPF30+ waterproof sunscreen that had been a beach companion since before I was a foeutus. I'd only recently escaped the knee-to-neck sun suits that zipped up in the middle and came in invasive fluroescent colours (my sister and I had matching ones, of course). I was the kid who wore a hat when she went swimming - not a cool bucket hat either, with the tidy little brim, but the broad-brimmed cricket-player equivelant hats, which, combined with the coating of zinc smeared across my nose and lips, was all I needed to be a serious contender for the Australian cricket team. I've had freckles since before I could walk, known what melanoma was before I could talk. Growing up on the Eyre Peninsula means I've always loved the beach; it's just sad that the beach has never loved me in quite the same way.



'I'm sure it's that,' she said. 'You just have to turn over ever 20 minutes and you won't get burnt. Trust me.'



I eyed her dubiously, her dark olive skin bearing apparent evidence of her foolproof suntanning theory. I wish I'd been able to fast-forward to the moment where I would be standing in front of my bathroom mirror, the whites of my eyes glowing extra white because my face was so red, skin so tight it felt like it was about to split open, radiating positively purple heat with blisters quickly forming on my back.



We trekked down onto the hot sand, hurtling towards the shallow tide pools that had been left there overnight. It was the middle of the day, the sun high in the sky. We'd commented on how deliciously deserted the beach was (at 1pm on a 39-degree day, how funny!) and threw down our towels in the middle of the sand, making tracks towards the water.



After a lengthy hour bobbing around in the shallows, making sure all of my sunscreen had completely evaporated from my poor desperately-seeking-protection skin, we basked in the shallow pools of water - 'just to warm up.' I'm surprised that my memory didn't jog the last time I had lain in the sun 'just to warm up' - Dad had taken us to Victor, sans Mum - aka the inflictor of the sun suits, reapplication of sunscreen every half hour and hats so big you could make a parachute out of them - and let us take off our sun tops for twenty minutes after we'd been in the water. My eyes still water at the memory of the sting of the sunburn on my calves, my back, the not-so-gentle slap of moisturiser that had been furiously rubbed into my poor cooked skin.



We crept back onto the concrete after lying in the sun for a substantial 2-hours. We were both flushed and pink; utterly dehydrated from the salt and the fact no water had passed our lips since the moment we'd schlepped across Henley Square from the bus stop. Everything was too bright and loud, the subsiding heat brought white spots in front of my eyes.

Because of the ways of the world, and the variables that always seem to stack up in the wrong direction, the worst sunburn I've ever had coincided with the start of the new school year - even after the fiery, unstoppable pain stopped lashing at every inch of skin that hadn't been covered by bathers, there was the subsequent peeling of skin - a wrath that I not only suffered but she did as well; the 20 minute rule was thrown to the wind as we held our breaths and waited for it all to be over - because there's no amount of makeup that can cover the torment, and even if you might've managed it -

'Is your earlobe peeling?'