1 month ago
16
A few years after my daughter visited Bremen, a port town in north-western Germany, her exchange parents came to Australia to stay with us. It was the very least we could do. Imagine taking on someone else’s bolshy teenager for 16 weeks. No greater gift.
But this was the best gift of all. It’s pretty much the only time I’ve met anyone as frightened of the surf as me. Theresia and I sat on the beach and watched as our husbands strode into the surf. I had to pretend to be the brave Aussie as she gripped my hand and kept asking if Bernard would be OK. Yes, of course, I laughed. People do this all the time.
Which is true. People do this all the time. Except me.
The reality is that the crashing, swooping, sucking, dumping habit of ocean waves is everything terrifying to me, along with what lies beneath, what isn’t instantly visible. Which is why, when it comes to beaches, I prefer the ones that offer harbour flat, usually nonthreatening, water. Sure, I’m the good family member who will go to surf beaches because that’s what everyone else wants to do. I will sit on the sand with my hat and my sunnies and stare out into the ocean.
Rock pools. Parks. Ocean baths. A decent fish shop. Very few teen hoons on e-bikes. Plenty of grass and shady trees. A local populace so used to being girt by sea that even the five-year-olds appear to be competent freestylers. No waves. And for reasons I’m about to explain, I need a lengthy, more or less straight promenade.
There is only one beach like that within 20 kilometres of the Sydney CBD. Promenades invite hoons. But not here.
There is only one beach like that within 20 kilometres of the Sydney CBD.
Let me introduce you to Balmoral Beach. Median weekly household income nearly three grand. Median age 45. Plenty of what is possibly the most expensive metered parking in greater Sydney. And plenty of people who act like they own the place. They do, and it costs them 2 million bucks a bedroom.
If you marry into a beachy family, you are expected to fall into line. And if you marry into a beachy family and have kids, chances are that the beach gene will prevail. Two of our three kids love the beach. All four of our grandchildren think there is nothing more entertaining than to throw a small, brightly coloured ball into the water and watch it come back as the wavelets come in. Nothing more entertaining than stomping on the carefully constructed seaweed-adorned sandcastle of your siblings or your cousins. Nothing more entertaining than racing up and down on the sand. Was I faster this time? Yes, until your little pumping legs gave up.
The promenade? Balmoral has best in show. It has the necessary decent toilet block about halfway along – an essential amenity for anyone of a more advanced age wrangling small children. They can’t wait. Me neither, these days.
The promenade is the perfect carriageway for those olden times three-wheeled scooters. And off they race.
“Now, don’t forget to look back. If you can’t see us, we can’t see you,” we say firmly. This rule was devised after No. 2 zoomed off so far and so fast we were beside ourselves, shouting his name, running. Gone for three minutes. Felt like an eternity as I cycled through a dozen catastrophic fantasies. To him, it felt like freedom as he scooted far and fast, tiny be-Croced foot pushing ferociously.
They’ve learnt the drill now. Up to the dunnies. Up to the stairs that lead to Rocky Point Island. Up to the end of Bathers’ Pavilion. Adventurous? Up the hill, turn right, down to the Edwards Beach end of Balmoral and to the rock pools.
Back to Bathers’ Pavilion. Dump the scooters and run up the hill. Up and down. Up and down. Your grandparents are exhausted just watching you.
We are at the showers just next to the grass when someone else’s grandma comes up to us. Our two grandsons are trying to get all the sand off before their fish, chips and tomato sauce. She is watching them, looking at me, watching them. I assume she’s in the queue.
I try to hurry them along and she says: “Don’t worry, I’ll just run home and have a wash there. I was just checking they got all the sand off.”
Ha ha. Takes a village to raise a child. Balmoral village. I feel like any minute she’s going to ask me if they are enrolled in swimming lessons. Yes, of course they are.
We bundle our sandy grandchildren back into the car, snakes enclosed in their still gritty hands. This time, all still aged under seven, still content with playing on the sand on a bay beach.
Won’t be too long before they want to head to the surf. And grandma will be sitting on the sand, watching, alert and alarmed. Reminding myself: “People do this all the time here.” Everyone except this grandma.
