k. A ‘word picture’ : Noarlunga Beach on a Sunday.

Firstly, the weather was lovely today. It was 26C. A wonderfully warm day. Winter just went on and on this year; it was grey and wet and cold and a drag. Everything unpleasant that today was not.

So, with such a beautiful sunny Sunday before us, David and I decided to go for a walk, with our four children, on a beach not too far from home. The beach we chose was Noarlunga beach in our home city of Adelaide (you might like to Google it), and while I was there I took a ‘word picture’ (which I’ve discussed in these blogs before). And, in case you’d like to ‘see’ my ‘picture’, I’ve printed it below:



Arriving on the esplanade, we traipse across the road, from where we’ve parked the car, and we march down cement steps to the sand. I immediately remove my shoes. Bare feet are such a wonderful novelty in my busy and regimented ‘working-mum’ life. I rarely let myself experience this sort of freedom. The sand is silky smooth and rippled beneath my feet. It feels like I’m having a foot-massage when I walk.

The six of us stride across the beach before, more tentatively, we inch our way into the sea. Cold water gushes over our toes and splashes around our ankles; it’s icy and exhilarating at the same time. I gasp, involuntarily, with the shock of the sudden change of temperature, although soon my tingling feet grow accustomed to the new temperature and the water becomes refreshingly cool rather than cold.

I look toward the horizon and marvel at the beauty of the ocean today. Under the clear azure sky, it’s colours are vibrant and particularly bright: swirling marine colours of marbled navy, aqua, and jade. Sunlight dances and dazzles across the calm surface of the quiet sea; and white specks - created by dozens of small fishing boats and yachts - dream and drift on its smooth surface. The image is one of beauty and calm.

A dozen or so bathers splash and swim close to the shore. The tide ebbs and flows around them. The waves reach forward onto the wet sand - watery arms desperate to stay on the shore and bask in the sun - before the great body of the ocean reclaims them once more.

The movements of the tide - crashing forward then pulling out again, in an endless cycle - creates a nautical rhythm; an oceanic heartbeat. A dull thud is created as the waves tumble forward onto the sand, while a melodic tinkling results from the water dragging back out again, bringing with it millions of tiny shells which collide together: Thud … tinkle … thud … tinkle … thud …

I soak up the warmth of the sun and immerse myself in the rhythmic sounds of the sea: Both are meditative and deeply relaxing. My rushing thoughts and worries are cast adrift - out beyond the horizon where I can no longer hear them or feel them - and I am left floating peacefully like the many boats out on the water today.

I find myself existing in the moment. The present. A place I too infrequently find myself; it’s a meditative and a happy place.

I stroll further down the beach with my family. We wade through tide pools. The water here is warm and completely still. I drag my foot forward and kick water high into the air. It sprays out and arcs in the air creating a rainbow as each droplets becomes a tiny prism to refract the light. The droplets soon fall back into the tide pool, creating myriad concentric circles which spread outward and form interference patterns with each other: a geometric artwork of ripples is formed and the sunlight dances and plays across them for a moment. Then, once again, the water is still and resting.

We pass a group of young people: 20-somethings each sitting beside a surfboard and wearing a wet suit. They are listening to an instructor who stands between them and their desire: the ocean. The instructor is speaking softly and gesturing with his hands. The young people appear bored and restless. But they sit and listen ... and wait.

We move on. Ollie, aged seven, is now kneeling in the surf. The waves splash over his shorts and his shirt to his waist.

'Get up, Ollie!' I call to him. 'You'll get cold. We didn't bring a towel or a change of clothes.'

'I'm getting the sand off,' he explains.

I think chicken or egg. He's kneeled in the water to his waist to get the sand off his shins.  So next he'll kneel in the water to his neck to get the sand off his waist - and then he’ll be drenched and sandy and cold.

But he's happy.

And it's a warm day.

So, I decide to choose my arguments and let him enjoy the water. This doesn't matter. I’ve learned, with age, that few things in life really matter. In the final moments of my life, I will hardly remember - or care - whether or not my seven year old son got wet and sandy at the beach once when we didn’t bring a towel. It will matter far more that he got to have fun that day.

We continue on and soon arrive at cliff walls near the mouth of the Onkaparinga river. The cliffs are a natural art form; sculpted over millions of years and painted with sedimentary stripes: tan, cream, orange, brown, and grey. They rise dramatically, from the coast, into the vast open sky above us.

We decide to walk a short distance along the riverbank and take in the different scenery here: Kayakers splash about on the river and take in the ocean view before they turn and paddle back upstream. Paddle boarders - wearing shorts, t-shirts and broad smiles - stand on their boards and pull themselves forward using a single long oar. Couples walk hand in hand along the grass, beside the river, under the shade of giant eucalyptus trees; and families sit on blankets - around picnic baskets and thermos of coffee - enjoying lunch and laughter in the sunshine.

About this time - after walking for around half an hour - we realise that we’re hungry and a little tired so the decision is made to return to whence we came and buy lunch at the cafe near the jetty, and near to where we parked our car. We will order our usual beach excursion feast: Fish and chips, with lots of salt, wrapped in crisp white paper; coffee; cold drinks, and fruit-flavoured ice-creams.

We take a short cut back to the beach across a sand dune. The sand here is different from that on the shore: it’s firm and hot like crusty bread; it cracks and crunches and breaks with each foot step so that we find ourselves sinking uncomfortably with each step, and the sharp hard surface cuts at the skin on our feet. Fortunately, we soon make our way back to the soft cool sand near the water.

Returning along the shore, we pass the surfing school again where the young people in wet-suits are still sitting on the sand listening to the instructor. They look even more bored and desperate to get into the water than they did half an hour earlier. But they must wait … patiently … as the instructor’s instructions go on … and on … and on …

David queries what the instructor could possible be discussing for all of this time: He suggests maybe it’s details about the ‘history’ of surfing; or technical details about surf boards; or how much fun surfing would be if you ever got into the water!

‘Maybe,’ David jokes, ‘the instructor dude has a six year university degree in theoretical surfing.’ I laugh at the idea of ‘theoretical’ surfing. And the notion that there would be a six year degree in the subject.

We reach the jetty and I take a last look up the coast. I see that the surfing school have finally reached the water. ‘Hooray!’ I say for them. ‘About time!’ I watch them for a while. They remind me of baby turtles leaving their beach nests and scurrying toward the water where they finally arrive safely in the surf and head out into the ocean. Relieved.

We climb the wet and sandy cement steps back to the esplanade. When we reach the footpath we wait in line, behind a group of teenagers, to wash the sand off our feet at the single tap there. We then put our shoes back on and walk across the road to the cafe.

Ten minutes later and we’re seated on white plastic chairs at a white plastic table in a shady spot which overlooks the beach. We are scoffing down hot salty fish and chips; sipping our coffee and cool drinks; and enjoying the view: The jewel sea; the golden stripes of the cliff wall; the empty blue sky; and the boats drifting peacefully in the sunshine.

I close my eyes and soak in the warmth, the sounds, the aromas, and the happiness and tranquility of a day at the beach with the people I love and in the country I love: My family in Australia.

I have captured another picture for my ‘word-picture’ album.  One to recall in days to come.  Maybe days when the weather is less warm and when I am less happy. Maybe my word picture will cheer me then and inspire me to look forward to sunnier and happier times again.

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The Noarlunga beach in Adelaide is beautiful and worth a visit. If not in the flesh - then through my words and via Google.

PS: You might like to take your own ‘word-pictures’ and put them in an ‘Album’ (AKA: journal). 

The advantage of ‘word-pictures’ is that they bring sounds and feelings and the sensation of touch and thoughts and words to your visual pictures of places.  These sorts of images will bring back lovely memories in a way that photos cannot. And they will be a record not just for you but also, possibly, for your children or grandchildren or friends. And, with your thoughts and impressions, you have a left a little piece of your own soul behind. On the page. To share now or many years in the future. Just as my grandmother did in her journals (I’m still finishing them). My grandmother wrote her thoughts and feelings and observations and ‘word-pictures’ and that is the main way I got to know her. (She died when I was five and she had had so many strokes by then that I don’t recall her ever actually speaking to me. But, I know her so well and I have heard her voice and felt her soul in the words she wrote in her journal. She left an impression of her soul behind with her words on the page.


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PS:  Finally, a quick little story about my seven year old son, Ollie, this week:

Driving home from school a couple of days ago, Ollie was telling me about a big black magpie feather he'd found in the school yard and decided to bring home.

'You didn't put the dirty old bird feather in your school bag, though, did you Ollie?' I asked in horror, imagining the big grubby bird feather and all the germs that it might carry .

'Oh, it's OK, Mum,' Ollie reassured me. 'I didn't just put it in my bag.  I put it in my lunchbox!'

It turns out he not only put the big 20cm black birdfeather in his lunchbox; he put it there before he'd eaten his lunch.  It sat there next to his sandwich and his apple.

Yuck!

However, my response for most things he does is the same - no matter how bizarre: He's seven years old!

That explains most things.

Fortunately, most of  the funny and childish things he does are sweet and kind: 

Tonight, driving home, he told me that when he finished his school work early today, he made some origami.

'What did you make?' I asked, imagining a paper-box or a paper-jet.

'I made my teacher, Miss Sandra, an award. And I wrote on it "World's greatest teacher." '



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