On the Beach

It was one of those rare hot days in East Lothian, when people
donned their swimwear and raced onto the sand with windbreakers,
buckets and spades. I remember that this was a spring day, for the
photos that my grandad took had the date - May 1974 - printed in blue
letters that ran vertically along the right edge. It was a muggy
warmth, the sky a deep azure, the sea complementing it's tint like a
fashion swatch. There was a foggy heat haze which shrouded the Bass
Rock, and we could hear his foghorn honk across the Firth of Forth.
Letting the passing container ships know that millions of years of
volcanic protrusion were there, so they'd better watch out!

I was in a outgrown, fuddy green swimsuit that my granny had hacked
into an awkward bikini, and my long, dark hair was clipped into a clasp
from Boots that I'd harassed her to buy me. It was a red rubber ring,
too small to save a drowning man. When Debra, the class golden girl,
had worn one into school, I had to have one too.

The sun's golden heat surged through the sand and up through my feet,
making my bones glow with its chalor and adding to my happiness.
Grandad sat on the beach, enjoying my rosy-cheeked laughter. How
parents are said to mellow when they become grandparents! I still have
the photos he took on that battered old 126 camera, that had once been
state-of-the-art? was that a real Scottish suntan? How amazing that a
distant ball of light, ninety-three million miles away, can yet bring
such heated harmony.

As for what I was doing? relatively little, except being a child. It
was true what my elders told me. Being a child is a good time, when
there are no responsibilities and when, all being well, your life is
gently ordered and taken care of. A time when you fall asleep oblivious
to where, waking to find yourself safe and snug, transported by love.
Or at least, that's how we all want it. Now I find myself in stark
opposition, sitting in a flat growing ever chilly with the approaching
winter, the view from my window desolate paving slabs that children
must call their playground.

But not to complain. That joy of being truly loved hasn't left me,
though my grandparents have long since joined the angels. That day ever
glows in my memory. Six summers later, I watched my little sister run
in and out of the indigo sea, her little smile as wide as the stars.
Perhaps if we get another hot day, I'll take my little boy to North
Berwick beach. When he gets here, of course.