The Beach
I wouldn’t be surprised if this has happened to you:
We’d always go to the beach in February (it’s the off-season! my father would say joyfully, as he booked half price lodging), when the sky looked fit to vomit, and the sand was a clammy grey silt-clay mixture that tugged at your toes in a harassing, malevolent way. Walking left your sneakers ruined, encrusted in a thick layer of cement frosting on the sides and bottom of the sole. Either that or the sand didn’t exist at all and instead the ocean was lined with large, pointed rocks that crippled you when playing tag. Your expectations of silky, golden sand were always drowned by the boiling asphalt sea. It was always grey.
We would drive up to the coast, having stayed in a tiny cottage (where the landlord lived in an adjacent shed and watched the Arsenal‐Man City game all night long), and park the car in an all but abandoned lot. If we were lucky, the groundskeeper would be there and ask for a donation to “preserve the beauty of this historic site,” probably referring to the shack that he sat in all day long with a tin of licorice allsorts. My father would fish out a £2 coin and put it in the rusted can of donations in which lay a paper clip and a gum wrapper. Listen up kids, my father would say, this may be the last chance for a loo break, so I suggest we all go now. I don’t need to go!, my brother would exclaim cheerfully, and would pull out a shard of wood he had collected yesterday evening. Watch me! I have a mustache, he would announce to the shack through scrunched lips, balancing the rotting yellow and grey splinter under his nose by puckering his lips. My mother would glance nervously to the groundskeeper, whose upper lip sprouted sparse, wiry silver hairs, but who was preoccupied with fixing the fly of his dark corduroys. We would wait for my father to return from the toilet. Nice day, my mom would say. I’ve seen better, the groundskeeper would reply, without looking up from his zipper.
A flushing sound, and then a fumble with the fake metal door handle, and my father would appear, buckling the little backpack straps around his waist. Daddy, I would say, you forgot to do the top buckle, pointing at the two straps hanging from the backpack near his chest. I don’t really need those straps right now, he would answer me, they don’t fit very well. Don’t worry!, I would tell him, I can do it, and I would reach up to fasten the straps. No, my dad would say, brushing my hands away from his red woolen quarter zip sweater, it’s quite all right.
We would walk through wet brambles on a path past a motorway, as I’m sure you’ve done, and would reach the beach. I would sigh internally, seeing the cold, barren coastal town of Fattings in the distance, or maybe externally, as my mom would quickly say, this is spectacular, David, let’s get the Green Guide out so we can read a little bit about this place. My father would rummage in the sack after unclipping both chest and waist straps of the backpack (I had fastened the top ones while he had given me a piggyback ride over a puddle about three minutes ago, and was sad to see my sneaky work undone), and pulled out a soggy guidebook. My mom would flip through the curling pages, and would begin to read. “Before starting this scenic walk, take a moment to orient yourself. To the left of the motorway, you can see a hill upon which Lord Hattiesfield built his house in 1691 while in exile, but which was torn down a decade later by warring…”
I don’t know about you, but I remember feeling my brain turning to static every time words from that book were uttered. Wait, mom? I would ask, can I read it myself? My brother and I would team up and push her arms down while pulling the book up and away. All right, let’s see, I would say, oooh! This one has THREE stars, mummy, and our spot only has one! We should go there, I would proclaim, pointing to a chocolate factory located two hours away.
No, goosie, she would say, and with a deft swipe would regain control of the book. Ugh, fine, my brother would say, but now we get to PLAY! He would run away, as far down the beach as his stubby legs would take him. But mum, I would protest, it’s not that far away! Look, you just--and I would reach up to trace the route along the A3, but before I could, my mother would lift the book high, high up into the air where my arms couldn’t go.
And then we would continue on, as you did too, and I would watch my dad’s hiking boots sucking through the sand, and then slapping the cement on the way back to the car. Then comes the moment that must always arrive during your childhood, when you witness life meld with death, and your fears are confirmed, and your father’s heavy, size eleven men’s foot comes down on top of an unsuspecting snail. You can picture the giant’s foot smashing your head in, and you feel the injustice of it all. Dad! you howl, and he wipes his foot on the ground. You must examine the gruesome aftermath, the splintered shell, the iridescent slime, the darkish maroon smears. It is on that sort of day that you understand life. And you would pile back into the teal Volvo that had finally gotten new licence plates, and strap yourself into tan leather seats crusted with receipts, popcorn and orange peels. You would hope the metal car roof could withstand a giant’s foot.
