Sunday last I enjoyed the pleasing coincidence of a hot and sunny day off. I visited a different church in the morning (a change is as good as a holiday and all that), napped in the afternoon, and decided to make the most of the long summer twilight and headed to the beach in the evening.
I realise that a visit to the beach means that for the next week I will be finding sand everywhere, in all of my possessions, even the ones I didn’t take to the beach, but I decide it’s worth it.
So after a high-speed 57mph trundle out to East Lothian, I arrive at 6.20 — 10 minutes before the chargeable parking period expires. It’s £2 to park for the whole day, and while that’s entirely reasonable, £2 for 10 minutes isn’t, so I sit tight for a bit. My phone has ZERO reception, which makes the minutes drag by.
Eventually at 6.25 I decide that a parking official would have to be vicious to penalize me for 5 minutes of unpaid parking, and so I sashay confidently towards the beach, meeting lots of families coming the other way, possibly because a shark has been spotted offshore, or perhaps because it’s getting towards the kiddies’ bedtime.
I head straight for the water, which feels surprisingly warm. It should be said that I measure all seawater temperature against the benchmark stored in my head, which is the Atlantic in October. At that temperature, the initial meeting of feet and water produce a shock to the system that results in not only a sharp intake of breath, but a momentary suspension of all life-systems, which of course gradually (over the course of say 30 minutes) gives way to a “come-on-in-the-water’s-lovely” feeling. Then a marginally bigger wave comes in, and brings about a meeting of the icy water with part of one’s leg that has hitherto not been exposed to such extremes. At that point the bubble of one’s “come-on-in-the-water’s-lovely” delusion is burst most emphatically.
So, with the context now firmly set, the water is surprisingly warm. I paddle along the water’s edge for a fair bit, making it round a couple of headlands, before returning the way I came, carefully avoiding jellyfish all the way. I meet a few fellow-paddlers, some of which, it must be said, are dogs. But one gentleman calls out as we pass
“You’re never too old for a paddle!”
“Pardon?” I reply. Too old to hear well, it seems.
I retreat from the water, and wedge myself into the seaward slope of a large sand dune, whereupon I am immediately set about by a plague of flies.
The Bass Rock is off to my right, Fife is straight ahead across the Forth, and a small rocky island with a lighthouse is on my left. The Lighthouse Island (I later learn it’s called Fidra) looks like something straight out of the Famous Five, and I have a strong urge to get in a boat and row across to it. But there are no boats, and I forgot my swimming cozzie. Plus, y’know, there may be sharks. So I Instagram it instead.
It’s Father’s Day. I sit on the sand dune and remember my dad, while the grains of sand gradually work their way into my bodily orifices and the flies continue to annoy.
I’m pretty sure I never heard my father say he was proud of me. Truth is, I’m not sure if he ever was. It’s nine years now since he passed. I’m reasonably confident he would be proud of me, if he was alive today. I’m not overly concerned about this, despite these musings, as I have learned to get my significance from my heavenly Father. But it would have been nice to hear.
Just this last week I watched my good friend Alyn bury his father up in Dundee. His father was a good, godly man, as was mine, and neither of them, it’s fair to say, were given to incautious displays of emotion. But they were both doing the best they had with what they had been given.
Father’s Day these days produces not only nostalgic memories of my dad, but the increasingly acute awareness that I could, at my advanced age, not only be a father, I could be a father whose children have all gone to university. Or away somewhere, inter-railing, or on an angst-ridden gap year, finding themselves.
It’s interesting how life has worked out. I don’t regret anything for a moment. Well, of course, that’s not strictly true, there are many things in my life that I regret, many decisions I would reverse if I had the chance to do them again.
But I’m happy with all the big decisions I’ve made, and this particular evening’s somewhat smaller-scale decisions have all been successful too, culminating with fish and chips on the beach at North Berwick, with the setting sun casting a golden, undulating ribbon across the Forth.
Here’s to creating new memories.
One thought on “You’re never too old for a paddle”
You are amazing!