Aussie model escapes death in ‘horrific' sauna explosion
Australian influencer and model Dominique Elissa narrowly escaped death after a sauna exploded in the backyard of an Airbnb.
The 30-year-old revealed she was staying at a property 30 minutes from Byron Bay, had no reception, no close neighbours and was just minutes from entering the sauna when it blew up.
'I had the most crazy, traumatising, near-death experience the other night,' Ms Elissa said in a TikTok video.
'I had put the sauna on. . . I was in it the night before, and I thought I'll just cook dinner quickly and then go in, in 40 minutes, which is what you do for a lot of saunas, you let them heat up.'
If you'd like to view this content, please adjust your .
To find out more about how we use cookies, please see our Cookie Guide.
Ms Elissa explained she had just finished eating and was about to put her bathers on for the sauna when she heard a huge bang.
'I hear 'boom' and I look up and the entire sauna exploded,' she said.
'It was like a 10 to 15-metre-high explosion, all the power went out, my phone was about to die, I have no reception.
'I am screaming 'Help! Somebody help me', like it was a horror movie.'
Ms Elissa was able to dial 000 but by the time emergency services arrived, the whole sauna had burnt to the ground.
'It was the most horrific thing to experience because I was a few minutes from going into that sauna.'
She said the incident has proven to her how precious life is and she is grateful to have escaped without injuries.
'Life is fragile, you have no idea what curveballs life is going to throw at you. It was the craziest 24 hours of my entire life.'
'I just feel so grateful to be alive.'
Ms Elissa's year has not been easy, with her mother passing away in March after a devastating battle with cancer.
Just two weeks before her mum's death, Ms Elissa held a wedding at the hospital so she could celebrate her marriage to her partner Tom Bull while her mum was still alive.
She said it was the best decision she ever made.
The couple will also hold another wedding in Italy later this year.
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Sydney Morning Herald
an hour ago
- Sydney Morning Herald
Why Mountainhead's ‘tech bro' satire rings eerily true
Four obscenely wealthy men, standing on a white mountain top, faces lit with snow glare. One uncaps a bright red lipstick and begins to perform what is clearly a long-standing ritual: writing their net worth on their bare chests. The wealthiest, Venis, is actually the richest man in the world, 'the king of cash, the marquis of Moolah, the North Star of net worth'. He seems to be a hybrid of Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg (though, at $US220 billion – 340 billion Australian dollars – he's not quite as wealthy as them) and is crowned with golden laurels. The second, Randall, played by Steve Carell, 'the Grand Old Duke of dough', with $US63 billion, is given a captain's hat. The third, Jeff, on $US59 billion, a sailor's hat. The fourth, Hugo (Jason Schwartzman), hangs a ladle around his neck to symbolise his nickname, 'Soups' for 'Soup Kitchen', as he is the poorest of the group. And when I say poor, I mean 521 million US dollars. Struggletown. Misery, and certainly, as his character showed, deep insecurity. Mountainhead is satire, but director Jesse Armstrong, the creator of the brilliant Succession, knows how to write rich people. As Venis walks through snow-laden trees with Carell, he grins and yells: 'It's so beautiful you could f*** it.' These men, Armstrong says, are notable for 'supreme confidence in their analytical abilities' and 'arrogance'. I kept thinking throughout about how tech analyst and podcaster Kara Swisher says the term tech bro is short for 'technically broken'. Amoral, self-concerned and making decisions about things they have no expertise in – how often we fall prey to the false idea that because someone makes a lot of money, they know about all other things, like how to run the world without destroying it. 'Do you believe in other people?' Venis asks Randall, who replies: 'I think one needs to.'
The Age
an hour ago
- The Age
Why Mountainhead's ‘tech bro' satire rings eerily true
Four obscenely wealthy men, standing on a white mountain top, faces lit with snow glare. One uncaps a bright red lipstick and begins to perform what is clearly a long-standing ritual: writing their net worth on their bare chests. The wealthiest, Venis, is actually the richest man in the world, 'the king of cash, the marquis of Moolah, the North Star of net worth'. He seems to be a hybrid of Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg (though, at $US220 billion – 340 billion Australian dollars – he's not quite as wealthy as them) and is crowned with golden laurels. The second, Randall, played by Steve Carell, 'the Grand Old Duke of dough', with $US63 billion, is given a captain's hat. The third, Jeff, on $US59 billion, a sailor's hat. The fourth, Hugo (Jason Schwartzman), hangs a ladle around his neck to symbolise his nickname, 'Soups' for 'Soup Kitchen', as he is the poorest of the group. And when I say poor, I mean 521 million US dollars. Struggletown. Misery, and certainly, as his character showed, deep insecurity. Mountainhead is satire, but director Jesse Armstrong, the creator of the brilliant Succession, knows how to write rich people. As Venis walks through snow-laden trees with Carell, he grins and yells: 'It's so beautiful you could f*** it.' These men, Armstrong says, are notable for 'supreme confidence in their analytical abilities' and 'arrogance'. I kept thinking throughout about how tech analyst and podcaster Kara Swisher says the term tech bro is short for 'technically broken'. Amoral, self-concerned and making decisions about things they have no expertise in – how often we fall prey to the false idea that because someone makes a lot of money, they know about all other things, like how to run the world without destroying it. 'Do you believe in other people?' Venis asks Randall, who replies: 'I think one needs to.'
The Advertiser
2 hours ago
- The Advertiser
Standing firm on Aussie talent in the streaming era
Making it onto a popular Spotify playlist is huge for country musician Sara Storer, who is releasing her eighth solo album. But she puts it down to sheer luck. "You just cross your fingers - you rely on someone to like your music, to get on a playlist that could be heard by millions," she says. This is the kind of scale musicians need to even start making money from recordings in the streaming era. Even solid numbers from Storer's mostly Australian audience don't translate to a viable income. A recent snapshot of the listening habits of Australian music fans show the shift to streaming has resulted in playlists that are dominated by pop from the US and Britain. While Australians say they love local music, only one in three fans will actively look for new songs by Australian artists, research by federal music development and funding agency Music Australia shows. And of the top 10,000 artists streamed in Australia during 2024, eight per cent were Australian while more than half were from the US, according to entertainment analytics firm Luminate. These are sobering figures but Darwin-based Storer has high hopes for her album titled Worth Your Love, which is being released at the end of June. "This album is a big deal for me," she says. "The songs on it, I just can't wait for everyone to hear the new music. "I feel like this is me getting back into the music industry." It's an industry that has completely transformed since Storer started out, teaching music and singing her own songs by the campfire at outback stations in the remote Northern Territory. When her first album Chasing Buffalo was released in 2001, listeners would hear Storer's tunes on the radio, she made money selling CDs, and her record label had money to spend. More than two decades later, the mother of four boys has to rely on touring to make a living. It's something she describes as a rollercoaster of variable ticket sales and festival slots that often don't eventuate. She wonders about the streaming playlists and radio stations that default to imported tunes, when she believes Australian music is top notch. "People can mock it and say we sound feral or put us down like we're second grade but I love the way Aussies sound," she says. She name checks John Williamson, Paul Kelly and Missy Higgins - each one an authentic storyteller, just like Storer. But a US sub-genre known as bro-country, with lyrics about women, whiskey, pick-up trucks and cowboy boots, is currently in vogue instead, she says. As she prepares to embark on a national tour in July, Storer hopes a more authentic brand of country will soon have a resurgence. "Especially older generations, they're not going to want to hear bro-country," she says. "They're going to be starved for someone singing Aussie stories." As for the future of the industry, Storer is putting her faith in the calibre and originality of Australian music. "At the end of the day it's about the quality of the songs, being true to yourself as an artist, because that's what really shines through," she says. "If you sound like everyone else, it's boring and you'll just get skipped." Making it onto a popular Spotify playlist is huge for country musician Sara Storer, who is releasing her eighth solo album. But she puts it down to sheer luck. "You just cross your fingers - you rely on someone to like your music, to get on a playlist that could be heard by millions," she says. This is the kind of scale musicians need to even start making money from recordings in the streaming era. Even solid numbers from Storer's mostly Australian audience don't translate to a viable income. A recent snapshot of the listening habits of Australian music fans show the shift to streaming has resulted in playlists that are dominated by pop from the US and Britain. While Australians say they love local music, only one in three fans will actively look for new songs by Australian artists, research by federal music development and funding agency Music Australia shows. And of the top 10,000 artists streamed in Australia during 2024, eight per cent were Australian while more than half were from the US, according to entertainment analytics firm Luminate. These are sobering figures but Darwin-based Storer has high hopes for her album titled Worth Your Love, which is being released at the end of June. "This album is a big deal for me," she says. "The songs on it, I just can't wait for everyone to hear the new music. "I feel like this is me getting back into the music industry." It's an industry that has completely transformed since Storer started out, teaching music and singing her own songs by the campfire at outback stations in the remote Northern Territory. When her first album Chasing Buffalo was released in 2001, listeners would hear Storer's tunes on the radio, she made money selling CDs, and her record label had money to spend. More than two decades later, the mother of four boys has to rely on touring to make a living. It's something she describes as a rollercoaster of variable ticket sales and festival slots that often don't eventuate. She wonders about the streaming playlists and radio stations that default to imported tunes, when she believes Australian music is top notch. "People can mock it and say we sound feral or put us down like we're second grade but I love the way Aussies sound," she says. She name checks John Williamson, Paul Kelly and Missy Higgins - each one an authentic storyteller, just like Storer. But a US sub-genre known as bro-country, with lyrics about women, whiskey, pick-up trucks and cowboy boots, is currently in vogue instead, she says. As she prepares to embark on a national tour in July, Storer hopes a more authentic brand of country will soon have a resurgence. "Especially older generations, they're not going to want to hear bro-country," she says. "They're going to be starved for someone singing Aussie stories." As for the future of the industry, Storer is putting her faith in the calibre and originality of Australian music. "At the end of the day it's about the quality of the songs, being true to yourself as an artist, because that's what really shines through," she says. "If you sound like everyone else, it's boring and you'll just get skipped." Making it onto a popular Spotify playlist is huge for country musician Sara Storer, who is releasing her eighth solo album. But she puts it down to sheer luck. "You just cross your fingers - you rely on someone to like your music, to get on a playlist that could be heard by millions," she says. This is the kind of scale musicians need to even start making money from recordings in the streaming era. Even solid numbers from Storer's mostly Australian audience don't translate to a viable income. A recent snapshot of the listening habits of Australian music fans show the shift to streaming has resulted in playlists that are dominated by pop from the US and Britain. While Australians say they love local music, only one in three fans will actively look for new songs by Australian artists, research by federal music development and funding agency Music Australia shows. And of the top 10,000 artists streamed in Australia during 2024, eight per cent were Australian while more than half were from the US, according to entertainment analytics firm Luminate. These are sobering figures but Darwin-based Storer has high hopes for her album titled Worth Your Love, which is being released at the end of June. "This album is a big deal for me," she says. "The songs on it, I just can't wait for everyone to hear the new music. "I feel like this is me getting back into the music industry." It's an industry that has completely transformed since Storer started out, teaching music and singing her own songs by the campfire at outback stations in the remote Northern Territory. When her first album Chasing Buffalo was released in 2001, listeners would hear Storer's tunes on the radio, she made money selling CDs, and her record label had money to spend. More than two decades later, the mother of four boys has to rely on touring to make a living. It's something she describes as a rollercoaster of variable ticket sales and festival slots that often don't eventuate. She wonders about the streaming playlists and radio stations that default to imported tunes, when she believes Australian music is top notch. "People can mock it and say we sound feral or put us down like we're second grade but I love the way Aussies sound," she says. She name checks John Williamson, Paul Kelly and Missy Higgins - each one an authentic storyteller, just like Storer. But a US sub-genre known as bro-country, with lyrics about women, whiskey, pick-up trucks and cowboy boots, is currently in vogue instead, she says. As she prepares to embark on a national tour in July, Storer hopes a more authentic brand of country will soon have a resurgence. "Especially older generations, they're not going to want to hear bro-country," she says. "They're going to be starved for someone singing Aussie stories." As for the future of the industry, Storer is putting her faith in the calibre and originality of Australian music. "At the end of the day it's about the quality of the songs, being true to yourself as an artist, because that's what really shines through," she says. "If you sound like everyone else, it's boring and you'll just get skipped." Making it onto a popular Spotify playlist is huge for country musician Sara Storer, who is releasing her eighth solo album. But she puts it down to sheer luck. "You just cross your fingers - you rely on someone to like your music, to get on a playlist that could be heard by millions," she says. This is the kind of scale musicians need to even start making money from recordings in the streaming era. Even solid numbers from Storer's mostly Australian audience don't translate to a viable income. A recent snapshot of the listening habits of Australian music fans show the shift to streaming has resulted in playlists that are dominated by pop from the US and Britain. While Australians say they love local music, only one in three fans will actively look for new songs by Australian artists, research by federal music development and funding agency Music Australia shows. And of the top 10,000 artists streamed in Australia during 2024, eight per cent were Australian while more than half were from the US, according to entertainment analytics firm Luminate. These are sobering figures but Darwin-based Storer has high hopes for her album titled Worth Your Love, which is being released at the end of June. "This album is a big deal for me," she says. "The songs on it, I just can't wait for everyone to hear the new music. "I feel like this is me getting back into the music industry." It's an industry that has completely transformed since Storer started out, teaching music and singing her own songs by the campfire at outback stations in the remote Northern Territory. When her first album Chasing Buffalo was released in 2001, listeners would hear Storer's tunes on the radio, she made money selling CDs, and her record label had money to spend. More than two decades later, the mother of four boys has to rely on touring to make a living. It's something she describes as a rollercoaster of variable ticket sales and festival slots that often don't eventuate. She wonders about the streaming playlists and radio stations that default to imported tunes, when she believes Australian music is top notch. "People can mock it and say we sound feral or put us down like we're second grade but I love the way Aussies sound," she says. She name checks John Williamson, Paul Kelly and Missy Higgins - each one an authentic storyteller, just like Storer. But a US sub-genre known as bro-country, with lyrics about women, whiskey, pick-up trucks and cowboy boots, is currently in vogue instead, she says. As she prepares to embark on a national tour in July, Storer hopes a more authentic brand of country will soon have a resurgence. "Especially older generations, they're not going to want to hear bro-country," she says. "They're going to be starved for someone singing Aussie stories." As for the future of the industry, Storer is putting her faith in the calibre and originality of Australian music. "At the end of the day it's about the quality of the songs, being true to yourself as an artist, because that's what really shines through," she says. "If you sound like everyone else, it's boring and you'll just get skipped."
