Midday Friday at Shelly Park Beach, Cronulla. It’s family time. Toddlers galore. Safe from the dumping waves at Cronulla Beach, they gather sea shells on the shore. Floppy hats. Oversized sunglasses. Rashies. Skin painted white with sunscreen layered on by protective mothers. The sun doesn’t stand a chance.
I venture through a maze of prams, umbrellas, shovels, and buckets careful not to trip. A rare space opens up at the foot of a sand castle. I lay my towel down and settle in for a snooze under the lazy sun.
Dozing off but I’m soon pulled back by cries that pierce the air. A two-year-old is spitting sand sporadically. It doesn’t taste like she was expecting.
Mum to the rescue. She washes it off with ice cool water fresh from an esky. Sliced up watermelon follows for desert. The child is satisfied. The tears dry up and she cosies into her hooded towel to rest.
Mum to the rescue. She washes it off with ice cool water fresh from an esky. Sliced up watermelon follows for desert. The child is satisfied. The tears dry up and she cosies into her hooded towel to rest.
I am now wide
awake. With my hopes for a midday nap slashed I turn my attention to the sea.
I edge
my way past a wall of rug rats and their floaties splashing on the shore. Out
in the depths seniors are swimming laps leisurely. I fill the age gap in the
centre of the rock pool floating for a while in complete calmness.
But something else is calling me. Not yet the family man, this beach is not
quite right for me. I crave danger, excitement, and risk. So I’m leaving the
toddlers behind for now to continue on my quest. Big surf is up next.Total count: 32/160
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