When I was younger, I was not very well behaved.
No, I didn’t traipse through fields of wheat – I wasn’t that naughty.
I just cried – a lot. My family seize every opportunity to remind me of what a little shit I used to be: “We used to have to take you out at 3am to Morrisons – the only thing that calmed you down was the freezer aisle.”
But there was a silver-lining of my constant tears. I got to go on plenty of adventures.
On one particular day, when the sky was beaming and the clouds non existent, my dad decided to ditch our usual journey to the shops and take me down to the beach.
“The wind would stop you crying,” he chuckles to me now.
I remember taking his hand and crossing the small road across from our house. We descended a flight of stairs, singing our favourite ‘stair song’ like we did every day. One potato, two potato, all the way to seven, until I would jump in the puddle that always appeared at the bottom.
While I’ve forgotten the journey to the beach, I’ll always remember the smell of the seaweed and feel of the sea spray on my face. We lived on the east coast, in a little seaside town named Dunbar. The north sea was on our doorstep, bringing with it harsh winters and chilly summers.
There was a bench at being the sea wall – my bench. It was worn and a faded blue, and yet every time we reached it I would stand and peer over at the nasty sea. Sometimes it would break over the wall, and I’d run away in my wellies to avoid the waves.
But today, I wasn’t up for going to my bench. I was in too sour a mood – perhaps my feet were cold, or someone had looked at my two-year-old self the wrong way.
So instead, my dad took me by the hand and we walked along the sand. There were no problems at first – I decided to stop crying, and we were watching the tiny birds stick their heads in the sand. But then all of a sudden, there was water touching my ankles.
My boots were getting wet and my little socks soggy – the tide had come in at a rapid rate. I remember my dad hoisting me onto his shoulders, and try to navigate his way across the slippery rocks and squelchy sand. We were in the middle of such a vast beach –
I was having the time of my life up there. I got to see the whole sea, and I was the tallest person on the beach.
When I ask my dad about it now, I realise it was a lot more serious than my younger self thought. The water was far past his ankles by the time we finally reached the opening in the wall.
But every time he recounts the story, he always ends it in the same way: “Hey, at least you stopped crying.”
What is your most memorable moment from when you were younger?
This was day eight of my 30 day blog challenge.