The big family beach holiday
January 8th 2008 02:53
The big family beach holiday is an unwieldy, hard to manage thing, a creature of wildly fluctuating moods and constantly changing moments.
It begins with rapidly mounting excitement as the car is loaded with deck chairs, sun umbrellas, windbreaks, beach towels, buckets and spades. Sheets by the dozen and food by the tonne promise a faircrowd. We head along the freeway through the straggling suburbs, through a string of little country outposts to the coast where shrill screams signal the first glimpse of the sea. Following a faint, grey photocopied map through the main Cowes drag in search of the house, rented, sight unseen, from the internet, we ponder the real distance of “close to the beach” and find (hallelujah) that it’s one block from the water. The house echoes and smells of fresh paint – there’s a mad dash from room to room, on high volume, jumping on beds, scaling and tumbling from bunks. The screams rise in pitch and intensity as the second and third cars pull up, discharging people, boogie boards, the pram, the baby.
And it’s off to the beach. There are sulks from the sun hat and sunscreen refuser threatened with exile to the wind shelter. But lotions and hats are soon forgotten in a melee in the surf. The baby, unimpressed by the churning water, drops his lip and cries. The first body-surfing casualty is pulled from the waves and rushed away under a towel while the sun sets on the remaining sets of chattering teeth and blue lips. Then it’s back to the house for a barbie. Beers all round.
Mutual advice and criticism is generously dispensed to cooks and parents but still the pre-dinner period is featured by kids behaving like kids and deaf-eared adults talking past one another. The uncoordinated appearances of fish and fowl leave the disgruntled vegetarian munching alone among a debris of half-finished plates and picked-over salad, while the main party heads off, with detailed commentary on how to have everything ready at once tomorrow, for dishes, TV and more beers.
An after-dinner drive fails to calm the kids but creates an opportunity for the adults to outwit one another on the re-vegetation and general ecology of the sand dunes. Back at the house the TV movie is punctuated by thumps and wails from the bunkroom, stampings out of the lounge room, hissed threats from the hall way and verbal volleys on cinematography from the experts on the couch. At midnight the baby is the last man standing.
Despite the best laid plans for a team start at an early hour, only a bachelor Uncle is out the door by nine o’clock, on his own, destination unknown. Envious and resentful eyes follow him up the drive. It’s past eleven before the advance quartet of kids and parents hit a beach whipped by a wind chilled by white capped waves and whistling with flying sand. Ninja Turtle Donatello is lost to the surf on his first swimming lesson. His distraught instructor refuses to be consoled by told-you-sos and shouldn’t-haves and is piggy-backed away with tear-stained face and trembling chin to cricket on another part of the beach and the unwise, whispered promise of a new Ninja.
Just when the burning, lacerated bodies of the advance guard can take no more sand, the second contingent arrives with the beach shelter. The object of yesterday’s derision, it is set up and occupied now in a shower of profuse praise and gratitude. The pram cohort turns up with a new and different shelter – a giant plastic leaf. Just like the real thing, it flaps wildly in the wind. We chase its elusive shadow across the sand, then throw our backs against it. The baby discovers the magic of sand. He digs his hand in and runs it through his fingers. Everyone else marvels at the miracle of babies.
A castle construction project is soon underway. Under combined adult direction and savoir faire turrets, bridges, a moat emerge. It’s the envy of the beach. But still, fine castles do not compensate for lost treasure and soon the Ninja nightmare resurfaces. Followed by sharp, critical eyes, accompanied by disbelieving headshakes, the sobbing, bereft one is piggy-backed away in search of a toy shop. But there’s only one Donatello. He cannot be replaced. After a lingering turn around the shelves, grief gives way to acceptance. Sandman, built for the beach, drown-proof, with fists like paddles, stares boldly from a hook above. Sandman can do anything. Sandman is the man. Sandman rocks. Soon, Sandman is his. Smiles eclipse the tears. He finds his feet again.
Back at the house, storms blow in over lunch. Sandman becomes an ugly bone of contention. Resentful stares between kids. Accusing glances between adults. Just in time another bachelor uncle turns up and distracts the adults with an expresso machine and the kids with “upside downs’ and rides on shoulders back to the beach. The wind has dropped. Great fun is had by all for a while with boogie boards and balls in the surf.
But up the beach by the wind shelter, Sandman has vanished. There are cries of anguish. Pandemonium. Hair-tearing. Disapproval. Uncalled-for comments. Two-bobs worths are thrown in all directions. Necks are stuck out and heads pulled in. Panicked excavations begin. There are casualties from flying sand but it’s all to no avail. Sandman has gone, slipped away, it seems, through the shifting grains. The hysterical, once-more bereft one is piggy-backed away again to the toy shop. This time it’s aliens all round in a desperate last-ditch bid for peace. At home there are forced smiles from the kids – aliens don’t rock - and cold disapproval from the parents – diplomacy is pointless, it’s all plastic crap.
But soon it’s Barbie and beers again. The kids are kids while the adults are adults, caught up in the exchange of advice and knowledge. Nonetheless, the gas runs out on the barbie, the oven won’t work, despite the best efforts and combined expertise of all the adults and the vegetarian finishes his lentil burgers long before the carnivores attack the sausages and steaks.
Back home now, a click signals the finish of the washing machine’s tenth load of sheets. The parents have gone back to work and the kids are playing harmoniously with the rediscovered spoils of Christmas. Donatello is swimming somewhere far out in Bass Strait and Sandman is tunneling his way around the island under the sand. Was it worth it, this family beach holiday? Of course it was. Every single moment.
Buckets and spades
It begins with rapidly mounting excitement as the car is loaded with deck chairs, sun umbrellas, windbreaks, beach towels, buckets and spades. Sheets by the dozen and food by the tonne promise a faircrowd. We head along the freeway through the straggling suburbs, through a string of little country outposts to the coast where shrill screams signal the first glimpse of the sea. Following a faint, grey photocopied map through the main Cowes drag in search of the house, rented, sight unseen, from the internet, we ponder the real distance of “close to the beach” and find (hallelujah) that it’s one block from the water. The house echoes and smells of fresh paint – there’s a mad dash from room to room, on high volume, jumping on beds, scaling and tumbling from bunks. The screams rise in pitch and intensity as the second and third cars pull up, discharging people, boogie boards, the pram, the baby.
And it’s off to the beach. There are sulks from the sun hat and sunscreen refuser threatened with exile to the wind shelter. But lotions and hats are soon forgotten in a melee in the surf. The baby, unimpressed by the churning water, drops his lip and cries. The first body-surfing casualty is pulled from the waves and rushed away under a towel while the sun sets on the remaining sets of chattering teeth and blue lips. Then it’s back to the house for a barbie. Beers all round.
Mutual advice and criticism is generously dispensed to cooks and parents but still the pre-dinner period is featured by kids behaving like kids and deaf-eared adults talking past one another. The uncoordinated appearances of fish and fowl leave the disgruntled vegetarian munching alone among a debris of half-finished plates and picked-over salad, while the main party heads off, with detailed commentary on how to have everything ready at once tomorrow, for dishes, TV and more beers.
An after-dinner drive fails to calm the kids but creates an opportunity for the adults to outwit one another on the re-vegetation and general ecology of the sand dunes. Back at the house the TV movie is punctuated by thumps and wails from the bunkroom, stampings out of the lounge room, hissed threats from the hall way and verbal volleys on cinematography from the experts on the couch. At midnight the baby is the last man standing.
Despite the best laid plans for a team start at an early hour, only a bachelor Uncle is out the door by nine o’clock, on his own, destination unknown. Envious and resentful eyes follow him up the drive. It’s past eleven before the advance quartet of kids and parents hit a beach whipped by a wind chilled by white capped waves and whistling with flying sand. Ninja Turtle Donatello is lost to the surf on his first swimming lesson. His distraught instructor refuses to be consoled by told-you-sos and shouldn’t-haves and is piggy-backed away with tear-stained face and trembling chin to cricket on another part of the beach and the unwise, whispered promise of a new Ninja.
Just when the burning, lacerated bodies of the advance guard can take no more sand, the second contingent arrives with the beach shelter. The object of yesterday’s derision, it is set up and occupied now in a shower of profuse praise and gratitude. The pram cohort turns up with a new and different shelter – a giant plastic leaf. Just like the real thing, it flaps wildly in the wind. We chase its elusive shadow across the sand, then throw our backs against it. The baby discovers the magic of sand. He digs his hand in and runs it through his fingers. Everyone else marvels at the miracle of babies.
A castle construction project is soon underway. Under combined adult direction and savoir faire turrets, bridges, a moat emerge. It’s the envy of the beach. But still, fine castles do not compensate for lost treasure and soon the Ninja nightmare resurfaces. Followed by sharp, critical eyes, accompanied by disbelieving headshakes, the sobbing, bereft one is piggy-backed away in search of a toy shop. But there’s only one Donatello. He cannot be replaced. After a lingering turn around the shelves, grief gives way to acceptance. Sandman, built for the beach, drown-proof, with fists like paddles, stares boldly from a hook above. Sandman can do anything. Sandman is the man. Sandman rocks. Soon, Sandman is his. Smiles eclipse the tears. He finds his feet again.
Back at the house, storms blow in over lunch. Sandman becomes an ugly bone of contention. Resentful stares between kids. Accusing glances between adults. Just in time another bachelor uncle turns up and distracts the adults with an expresso machine and the kids with “upside downs’ and rides on shoulders back to the beach. The wind has dropped. Great fun is had by all for a while with boogie boards and balls in the surf.
But up the beach by the wind shelter, Sandman has vanished. There are cries of anguish. Pandemonium. Hair-tearing. Disapproval. Uncalled-for comments. Two-bobs worths are thrown in all directions. Necks are stuck out and heads pulled in. Panicked excavations begin. There are casualties from flying sand but it’s all to no avail. Sandman has gone, slipped away, it seems, through the shifting grains. The hysterical, once-more bereft one is piggy-backed away again to the toy shop. This time it’s aliens all round in a desperate last-ditch bid for peace. At home there are forced smiles from the kids – aliens don’t rock - and cold disapproval from the parents – diplomacy is pointless, it’s all plastic crap.
But soon it’s Barbie and beers again. The kids are kids while the adults are adults, caught up in the exchange of advice and knowledge. Nonetheless, the gas runs out on the barbie, the oven won’t work, despite the best efforts and combined expertise of all the adults and the vegetarian finishes his lentil burgers long before the carnivores attack the sausages and steaks.
Back home now, a click signals the finish of the washing machine’s tenth load of sheets. The parents have gone back to work and the kids are playing harmoniously with the rediscovered spoils of Christmas. Donatello is swimming somewhere far out in Bass Strait and Sandman is tunneling his way around the island under the sand. Was it worth it, this family beach holiday? Of course it was. Every single moment.
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