By Angela Garwood
We took the children to the beach yesterday for what has become our annual May Beach Day.
The sun came out, we’d both had particularly busy work-weeks, so decided to abandon our to-do lists on Sunday and escape to the sea.
Picnic prepped, towels counted, children fed and watered, we drove down to our usual spot, each choosing a song for the Spotify queue.
It’s surprisingly hard to think of your favourite songs on the spot, and I found myself delving into 80s and 90s playlists as Maia opted for singers I’d never heard of. Tate McRae? Sabrina Carpenter? Who were these incredibly famous young women I knew nothing of? I immediately felt decades older than my actual years.
We arrived only an hour later than originally planned, which I sort of knew would happen, so no real time-angst there. Munching on cheese baguettes and staring out into a lively, but still gorgeous beach, waves crashing in the distance, I felt the busyness of the week slowly dissipate.
I brought books, which was inevitably futile, but I enjoyed the paragraph I did get to read.
Leo, who used to strongly dislike his feet touching the sand, played happily barefoot with a bucket and spade, wondering why exactly the dry sand kept landing in a pile, failing to maintain a castle shape.
Maia and I ventured into the water, which I deemed a reasonable swimming temperature. Like many, I dip my feet in and make an initial assessment on the degree to which I’m going to immerse myself. It’s a snap instinctive decision. If it’s bitterly cold, a sharp shock to the skin, it’s a hard no, if it’s milder, warm and manageable, I commit.
Maia is much braver than I and will plunge in, often regardless of temperature.
Fully immersed, we larked about in the shallow area, riding each wave and laughing at everything and nothing. Being silly in the sea with my daughter is one of my favourite things in the world. One of my happiest places. (I’d say with Leo too, but he’s not yet a fan of the sea.)
After devouring our Mr Whippys, playing several games of Uno and trying hard not to hit our neighbours in the head batting a tiny (but quite hard) ball to one another, it was time to pack up.
Something, one would think, would be relatively straightforward. A few minutes at most. But then, not everyone has a tent. A small, unthreatening, seemingly basic piece of seaside equipment.
I don’t know how long it took Joel and I to pack the small tent we’d borrowed from a family member back into its bag. I lost all sense of time, reason and logic during the minutes we spent going back, forth, over, under, and everywhere in between trying to work out what exactly “twist in an anti-clockwise direction” meant.
At one point we considered abandoning the operation entirely. But then, somewhere between steps 4 and 5, it magically twisted into place. Just like that. And in it went into the bag, zip done up, like something of a miracle.
“AAAHHHHHHHHHHHH,” I cried out in a visceral mix of relief and pure elation. The word “achievement” barely covers it. This was monumental.
To celebrate the tent triumph, we ended the day most appropriately; with fish and chips (and breaded mushrooms, because Leo inhales them.)
Now, come Monday morning, it all feels like a bit of a dream. Back to the to-do list, and a heap of sandy towels ready for the washing machine. Still, grateful for another glorious beach day.
Angela blogs at The Colourful Kind
