three in the sea

Filey beach

From here and below is my original personal blog and as such is nothing to do with Munday-Shakespeare. Read and enjoy if you wish but it is no longer the reason for this site.

Sometimes we make the mistake of daydreaming out loud: as in, “we could do with a new suite” or “this kettle isn’t boiling very quickly these days”. Mine was, “the weather forecast is sunny for the rest of the week, and it could be nice on the coast.”

“Did you hear that, girls? Granddad says we are going to the seaside when you come on Wednesday. Don’t forget to bring your ‘cossies.”

With the holiday traffic, it took over an hour door-to-beach, or rather, the cliff top car park in Filey. There is a play park with swings and climbing frames and ropes so as soon as I had parked up the three of them ran to the playpark leaving Penny and me to gather all the vital equipment needed for these occasions.  The essential picnic spread over three bags and a box of cakes, bottles of water, swimming costumes in a bag, towels In a bag, spare clothes in a bag, a bag of bags to separate the litter and wet items into later, the beach blanket rolled and, unusually, not in a bag: then my small backpack with wallet, phone, wool jacket, first aid kit, and parking purse full of loose change. Putting everything back down again, I went to the machine to buy a parking ticket. Four hours or eight hours?  Four, I will be on my knees by then but faced with an hour drive home while all else snooze.

The girls found a spot straight away; it was at the end of the boat launch ramp. “No, won’t do, too close to the ramp and everyone else on the beach will have to pass within five foot of us. Move further down, at least a hundred yards.” I ordered.

Placing the mat carefully on the sand Anna walked straight onto it covering it with sand before any bags had been placed. “Get off and clear off while Nanna and I sort out.” I shook the mat clean again and we sorted the stuff.

“Can we go down to the sea?” asked Rose.

“You can, but only to dip your toes. We will sort your cossies out in a bit,” instructed Penny, while still sorting out the food and bags. “Come back in ten minutes for the picnic.” Half an hour later Lauren, the eldest, returned with two soaking wet sisters half covered in wet sand.

“You were only supposed to dip your toes, not swim in it.”

“We didn’t, we got drenched by a big wave.”

This wasn’t true, they were only 150 yards away and the waves were gentle and benign. I had watched them sit in it but I was too far away, and with a hundred other excited kids between us shouting was futile. When they had re-robed themselves in their cossies we sat them down for the picnic. I reached for a bap but was told, “That’s Rose’s, she doesn’t like butter.” Selecting a second bap I was stymied again. “You don’t like tomatoes; yours haven’t got any in them.”  Penny reached forward and picked mine out for me, then passed it over with a, you’re an idiot, look with a ‘tut’. I and most men have been benignly allowing females to get away with that type of put down for years. Now, with all this misandry feminism these days, I realise that’s a mistake. Paternalistic common sense kicked in and – yet again – I allowed it without protest, thus legitimising the error that I never made. (I am beginning to push back, but gently at first).

“Look at that granddad,” shouted Lauren, who then pointed skyward with her Bap. There was a paraglider above us; but only a few feet above us, 50 at a guess. He was skillfully catching the up-draught from the cliff face and appearing to remain motionless almost. I watched fascinated for a minute then, turning once again to my hard-boiled egg, noticed it had lost its yolk. It hadn’t gone far; only a few inches between my hand and the sandy beach. “Blast,” I said (or words to that effect) “‘snot my day.” The girls laughed and giggled as they always do when a grown-up seems to be rude. Toilet humour and the like never fails with kids is my experience. I remember tipping my own sons into fits of laughter when repeating a joke I had heard. In a Western movie drawl, I pretended to be a cowboy and triggered my hand at one of them, then said, “Stick your hands up – yer bum.”

Lauren took them to the sea once again and they splashed and swam about for an age. Lauren then, having had enough, came back but left the two young ones enjoying themselves. I had to go on lifeguard duty. The first ten minutes aren’t so bad but then the novelty of paddling up and down while two kids have the time of their lives while ignoring you completely is quite mind numbing.  Penny, obviously feeling sorry for me, came to stand with me for a while. We chatted enthusiastically about how we were too old for this malarkey and were never going to do it again. Anna came out of the sea. “I need a wee.”

“Don’t talk daft, wee in the sea like everyone else.” I said.

“We can’t they put stuff in the water so it turns red and then everyone knows.”

“No Anna,” said Penny, “that’s only at the swimming baths. It’s allowed in the sea. Go back in and do it, everyone does.” she smiled at Anna then me.

Anna mirrored the smile, partly embarrassment I suspect, then giggled. “We can wee in the sea Rose, Nanna said.”

We packed up some clutter, and I returned to the top of the cliff and put it in the car. I then called into the toilet block before returning, a paddle up to my navel in the sea didn’t appeal to me somehow. The day ended with a walk along the front to look at the Filey Fisherman statue. That was followed by a final ice cream before the return walk along the beach to the car, and then home. It was a quite quiet drive back to York.