The smell was as always, that aroma of sunscreen and fly repellent. The sounds were the same, tea trees bending and creaking in the sea breeze and the sharp snapping sound they made as they broke under foot. Slow trekking along a narrow, shady and sandy trail, hearing the sound of fellow trekkers wearing their thongs and the smack as they hit the soles of their feet.
I can hear the occasional gull and the odd crashing sound of a wave in the distance and can sense the anticipation of fun as I see a boy getting closer to the clearing. He does not know that he is being watched and I am enjoying my moment of quiet study, wondering what might be going through his mind, as he gets closer to the beach.
We find ourselves on an outcrop of reeds and sand and are presented with the majesty of a beach, late in the morning. The sun’s warmth is perfect and the sand is so white and soft and tickles between the toes.
We stop and gather together to select our spot from our small cliffy outlook and the tide is out. Gulls are swooping through the surf, desperately trying to catch a fish in the shallows while there aren’t too many people in the water. The darkened sand has only a few strands of seaweed and we decide on our place.
Slowly and carefully treading down the small descent we try to pace carefully as our feel sink into the soft dry sand. That beautiful calming rhythm of the waves becomes all too clear and soothing to hear, feeling like a gentle massage for the mind and the soul.
We find our place on the sand that thankfully it’s not too hot and we lie down on our towels and sink toes further into the sand in the hope of drifting away.
There is a plead and a hand out stretched and a calling for company at the shore. No one’s steps are in line and the footprints are ramshackle as I look along the wet sand. Small prints from feet accompanied with large. Large footprints of those well travelled, guiding and taking control and showing the way, while the small footprints are mismatched and a mess. Twisted steps that show excitement, wonder and uncertainty as they get closer to the water. You can sense how tightly the hand grip must be of that precious young child, clutching to their elder as they get closer to the roar of the sea.
The crashing of the waves and the sea becomes more and more demanding, beckoning all new comers with impatience and rumbling, toppling on top of itself to gain attention.
It was not so much a fear that held the little boy back, but more an inquisitiveness. He stood as tall as he could on his tip toes to see out further, stretching his neck in an attempt to see over the crashing waves and spotted a small group of men on surf boards, lying on their stomachs, drifting up and down with the swell of the sea. He wished he could be there. He dreamt of the courage to fight the anger of the white foam and to be there with them, they looked to be at peace.
Out in that isolated place, it was a time to be at peace. As much as the squeals of the children on the shore could be heard, it was a world away and a place that was not a concern for them. Here, there were no rules, there were no responsibilities, there were no requirements, the only requirement that they had to follow was to watch the swell and obey the sea.
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