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Most waterholes in the northern rivers of New South Wales are hidden from view. Creeks snake through private land, unseen from the road. To find the path to my waterhole, a visitor needs directions. The forest is thick and there is no line of sight.

When I was a teenager, many of my peers lived on bushland with waterways. I had a close-knit group of girlfriends and we’d have weekend sleepovers, moving between each other’s houses and creeks.

Each creek system is unique and constantly changing. Flooding is rife and, with each flood, a waterhole will be altered. From season to season, nothing stays the same.

I love all the creeks of my youth but my favourite belongs to my longtime bestie. Unlike my waterhole, which is small and round, shady and mysterious, hers is a long, wide stretch of waterfront with a pebbled bank, a swing-rope, and an old cement staircase down.

Turning into her driveway, there’s nothing to signify the oasis within. Dry grass, big-eyed cows, a few pieces of scattered farm machinery. You drive across barren paddocks, dip down towards the bridge then, suddenly, the creek is in view.

I cross the bridge slowly to see if anyone is already down there. An expanse of breeze-rippled water, the gracious sweep of overhanging trees. Looking out the car window, I feel myself exhale.

We used to swim on the opposite side of the bridge. Back then, that was the deep part.

My bestie is one of five siblings, so all the jaunts to her creek involved gangs of kids. We would jump from the swing-rope, descending into the deep through a haze of air-bubbles. Or, if that entrance felt too bracing, we’d take float about in giant disused tractor inner-tubes, casually capsizing one another. There was noise and laughter. It was always raucous.

If the fun got too loud, the family’s border collie – overcome with Fomo – would catapult herself from the bank, straight into the fray.

Northern rivers summers are often so dense with heat and humidity it can be hard to move, but a dip in the creek breaks the torpor. We’d dive beneath the cool surface and arise anew. No wonder there was so much laughter; the relief was ecstatic. Afterwards we’d sit on the dappled bank in the soft breeze, chomping watermelon and chatting, out of reach of the blasting sun.

Thirty years on, my bestie lives interstate. A few times a year a bunch of the old crew converge at her creek. Though it’s her family home it feels like a homecoming for all of us. I look at my school friends. We’ve been through so much. So many seasons! Floods, droughts, births, deaths.

When we strip off, it’s all there on our bodies: scars mixed in with the ordinary wear and tear. It’s bolstering – this evidence of life lived. Single file, we step down those off-kilter cement stairs towards the waterline and – like turtles – plonk in.

Once we’ve cooled down, we swim to the shallows and lounge on the pebbly bank, legs in the water. The silt of the creek sticks to our skin, showing up each tiny hair, and we suddenly appear animal. Primates, gathering as in days of old to natter in the cool. How long have humans been congregating at this waterhole? As long as there’s been water.

I’ve been looking at these faces since my youth – exposed after a dip, hair slicked back, makeup-less. Like the creek systems themselves, we have all been rearranged. Same but different. Ravaged by time but still shining. We slink back in for one more swim, treading water in the deep, staring at each other – open-faced, smiling.

In the creek, our troubles come adrift. They flow away downstream. The birds call, the lizards scuttle. There are dragonflies wafting in the breeze. Time stills. Those gentle movements – treading water – are so hypnotic, so soothing. Sometimes we’ll tear up, eyes brimming, all that we’ve survived humming in the space between us, but the water will hold that too. Softly, tenderly – it is carried by the flow.

We soon climb into our cars and drive back towards our lives, collecting our troubles along the way, but in those moments – gathered there together, treading water – we are light and free.

• Jessie Cole is the author of four books, including the memoirs Staying and Desire, a Reckoning