The ocean stirs the heart, inspires the imagination, and brings eternal joy to the soul.
Robert Wyland
There are things that lurk, scuttle, paddle, dive, ripple, scoot and heave in the water and on its edge. And I’m not talking aquatic life forms here. It’s the mesmerizing humans that inhabit the sand and the surf during the summer. Now I’m one of the lucky who live beside the sea. I hear the susurration and thunder of the waves as I wake and fall to sleep. I love it. Most summer days I find a spot on one of the many pretty beaches on the south coast and set up my quasi campsite to:
have easy access to a safe entry spot for effortless swimming and bobbing about
ensure the least possible exposure of my skin to sun (gingers are in danger of burning after a few seconds in the light
choose a comfortable spot for stabilising the chair which must have easy access to book/hat/dry towel/extra towel/rash vest/water bottle/bag of snakes (lolly variety)/block out/sunnies/hair lotion/phone/eyedrops…. the list is endless, and the bag is huge
a great vantage point for the writer and self-confessed people watcher
And the sea creatures do not disappoint. In the summer and the warmer public holidays, they flood to the coast. We welcome them because this place is far too good not to share. But they do amuse.
Firstly, are the family groups. They are varied in number and beach behaviour but somethings are utterly consistent. The males (usually) strike out from the carpark to the sand wielding cavernous kits consisting of large carry-alls, wheeled trolleys and piles of pristine towels. They are followed (often) by the females carrying similar loads of plastic tubs fill with objects designed to construct sand Taj Mahals, dig ankle breaking ditches, balls, bats and boogie boards. Someone in that melee has an esky or two. Following them are two extremes of the family group, the offspring and the elder statespersons. The older adults, one might assume grandparents, have their own accoutrements which inevitably includes a chair, and umbrella and large head coverings capable of flight. They perch on the periphery of the larger bustling group. The offspring includes babies, juveniles, pre-teens, adolescents and the more complex ‘why am I here I’m nearly an adult’ young grown-up. Each bringing their own idiosyncratic beach behaviour. Inevitably several things happen…a baby eats sand and brings on maternal panic. Hopeful dads try to get a game of cricket going with a few willing and not so willing participants. A few disgruntled kids never get to bat, he who wanted to play for Australia insists on bowling like Dennis Lilley on speed, one show-off parent belts the ball into the quiet sanctity of other people’s beach camps and a sneering teen lurks so far out in the out field he looks like he’s actually part of the soccer game that kicked off with another family. On top of the ball sports some hapless teen has been given a surfboard for Christmas and with limited skills rushes out into the waves and in uncontrolled enthusiasm hurtles back in and over unsuspecting swimmers.
Family chaos at its best.
The next group are the young adults who appear to be hunting in packs. I don’t know who lets them out on their own because they seem to require some serious supervisory input. No-one has a hat. And while they spend time slathering each other in block-out it appears that this is a lot less about sun safety and more about the opportunity to engage in socially acceptable back rubbing. They are a mixed gender group of a similar age. They make noise, bring music (it might be music, its often just music adjacent), haven’t quite got enough fabric to cover all the bits and frequently run headlong into a rip. And never swim between the flags! And while all that sounds a bit critical, they are almost my favourite sea creatures generally because of their predictability. Scream on entry to water like it is acid. Play silly buggers pushing and shoving and splashing. Dive dramatically under foamy waves, pop up like dolphins and body surf all the way to shore. They don’t hold back their enthusiasm, there is no sulking or lurking, it’s just unbridled joy until waterlogged and sunburnt they retreat and realise that one must live with the consequences of failing to put all that block-out where it might have mattered most.
Into the mix are the loved-up couples. Maybe it is their first beach holiday together or a honeymoon. One of the pair carries all the stuff, the other scans the tide lines and seaweed dumps to select the prime position for setting up their sunshade (or dare it be a cabana). The reconnaissance is worthy of military command. Once selected the complicated unfolding and securing of shelter begins. There are those who make the cavalier decision to just let the poly-canvas haven stand on the sand with limited mechanisms to secure it and the others who will be deconstructing the sanctuary till midnight. The very practiced know the magic of the ‘thanchor’. (I believe we invented the word if not the system). (Tie the securing cord to your thongs and then bury the thongs deep in the sand…that tent/umbrella/cabana is not going anywhere!)
Next are the athletes. Yep, they are there. While we sit and soak they run, train, stretch, hit the deck and do push ups and other human body defying activities. Good on them. Enough said.
The surfers come in three distinct groups. The masters who have made it into an artform. They have been perfecting the moves for decades. They are the grizzled, leather skinned, dreadlocked sandy kings and queens of the waves. Then those who are making their way through the ranks from grommet to competitor to the lofty heights of a natural. They can be any age, gender, size, shape but they all have conquered the sea. The third group is less proficient. Newbies. Even they come in two groups. Newbies who are part of a surfing dynasty (they might be five years old) have salt water in their veins and the other sort who tend to forget their place in the pecking order. Wave wars ensue! The one thing that ties them all together. The run from sand to surf. It seems that no-one with a surfboard can walk to the water. They have to do a cool jog. Sort of like the warmup, the announcement of their arrival. ‘I have come to rule the waves’.
The life savers, however, are the true royalty of the beach. Many are local people who volunteer to keep us safe while we plunge, prance and submerge. My heart felt respect for all of you.
Then there is everyone else. The people who hate sand, fear the water, loathe the beach and all upon it. The readers, the phone obsessed, day trippers, holiday makers and lifers. Some are there under duress. Some because it is the way life is. The over prepared, the under prepared. Those who are neck to knees in lycra, those who are fabric challenged. Even some who swim fully dressed. Occasionally, and unpleasantly, one or two fully undressed. Burned, tanned, translucent, beautiful, dark skinned, from far away, from across the road, big, small, wobbly or muscled we are all there. We come as a right of passage. We share the Australian-ness of it. We bask in the freedom. We are the sea creatures of summer. The very lucky ones.
(Disclaimer: sometimes we get bit! Or stung! Or caught in a rip! It’s not always perfect.)
But please do all the local sea creatures a favour, particularly the life savers on our beaches, and swim between the flags!
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