I was sitting in my physio’s office the other day looking at this beautiful photograph of Bells Beach. One of those classic views looking across the bay — the headland, the road curling up the hill to the right, the bush running down toward the sand, waves folding into the shore, and the little creek threading its way under the road and out to sea.
Just a photograph on a wall, I think, and a common one around these parts. People love that iconic beach. But I found myself staring at it while memory after memory came flooding back. It amazed me how one image could hold so much life inside it.
There are photos somewhere of me on that beach as a tiny child, completely nude, waiting for Dad to come in from the surf. Back then the tea trees behind the dunes used to drop this soft moth-like bark and we would gather huge armfuls of it to make little beds and nests in the bush. Soft shelled little crabs bought hope as macabre exhibitions. Squishy seaweed underfoot.
Me in late '90s, east coast
As teenagers Dad would race me up the stairs from the beach, absolutely determined to prove he was fitter than me. There was a drain that ran from the top of the stairs all the way down and one of us kids would stand above yelling into it while the others waited at the bottom listening for the echo.
I remembered an old boyfriend sneaking off into the scrub carrying water bottles and fertiliser for his hidden little cannabis plants. I remembered nearly drowning there once too, being held underwater long enough to feel real panic.
Dolphins, too. I still remember surfing beside them and turning my head underwater to look directly into those enormous black eyes as they moved through the waves beside me. It felt ancient and playful at the same time.
Me in Thailand, 2000's sometime
My whole life feels stitched together by beaches and ocean - even travelling, I'd find my way to foreign beaches, staring out to sea.
First time learning to SUP, mid 2000's - a skill that'd sustain me for over a decade
The smell of strawberry surf wax melting slightly in the heat. Rubbing wax onto boards in the carpark before dawn. Zipping up Dad’s wetsuit while he put his earplugs in. Tearing over sand dunes as kids and spending whole afternoons building sandcastles.
Then getting old enough to paddle out properly.
I remember crying in the surf because the paddle felt impossibly long. Dad and my uncles disappearing over the next wave while I struggled behind them in the cold water. Even now Ghost Dad's in the water with me.
Sunburnt shoulders. Sandy feet. Salt drying white on skin. Wagging school to go surfing. Moonlight swims drunk after the pub. Camp trips down the coast.
Later came horse rides along empty beaches, jumping off cliffs into deep water below, camping trips down the coast where the beaches stretched wild and deserted for miles. The Southern Ocean freezing cold and alive with power.
Me and my horse Bayleaf
And when my son was born, and I was hungry for travel, I'd take him camping, or spend hours just hanging on the beach with other Mums and their kids, because they'd look after themselves playing whilst we chatted in the sunshine. The beach was like another parent.
The ocean has always been there for me.
Not just as scenery. As a constant companion through every stage of my life. As a kid, waiting for Dad to come in. As a confused, lost and wild teenager dreaming of other places, learning to surf. As a mother. And now, sitting on the sand with my grandson building sandcastles, wild swimming, calming my nervous system.
Even now, when I walk down onto a beach and feel that cold water around my legs, something inside me settles instantly it's my happy place.
This post is in response to the Ocean Lover's challenge - links below. Anyone can join in and there's 50 Hive on offer to write about your first memories - or any memories - of the ocean.
With Love,
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