Now and then, we would swim in the ocean, away from that barricaded swimming space. I held a yellow kickboard, a flotation device designed to help a child learn to swim. I found myself in a rip. The current was pulling me further from the shore, no matter how much my tired legs kicked or how tightly I held onto that kickboard. Then, I saw my older brother. He was wading towards me, worry scrawled on his face. Swimming over incoming waves, he reached me, grabbed the board and began to side-stroke towards shore. But he was only 10. To me, in that moment, he was a hero. But he was still just a child, and even his arms lacked the strength necessary to reach safety. And that’ s when a passing surfer saw us struggling. He paddled us both to shore. I saw my mum. She had noticed the commotion and had ran to the shoreline in fear. I’ ll never forget that either.
Or the time my brothers and I waded with our dad out to a sandstone stack 100m offshore. Or the time I watched a man dive into a rockpool that must’ ve been 3m deep, touching the bottom each time.
If we are shaped by our memories, this beach did more to mould me than I realised until I recently returned. I’ ve been thinking about it since.
I have a clear memory of my dad taking my brothers and me out to this stack.
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