Re: When did you first se the sea?
I once wrote about my first real recollection of the seaside. It's written in the third person but is my own precise memory, as best as I can recall it, and is entirely accurate as to date.
A VISIT TO THE SEASIDE
Nothing could be better than this. Nothing. He’d been to the seaside before. Of course he had. Lots and lots of times. His mummy had told him. But the last time was ages ago and he could only just remember a stony beach because he’d been there in August and now it was May. A Friday. Nine months is a long, long time when you’ve only just had your fourth birthday. Now here he was at the seaside again, but this time standing on a sandy beach which stretched for miles and miles. There was more open space than he had ever seen before, enough to make him breathless with wonder at the vastness surrounding him. And the sea stretching away for ever, blue and sparkling. When he looked out over it, the edge where it met the sky was curved, which proved to him that the earth was round, just like his big sister had told him. Like a huge orange, she’d said. She knew about lots of things. It was a pity she was so bossy. But at least she was now helping him make a sand-castle while their mum and dad and elder brother lay back on the sand in the afternoon sunshine, hands behind their heads. They were all squinting at the distant horizon and seemed completely wrapped up in their own thoughts.
The sand-castle was finished. It only needed the little tissue-paper flags which had been bought especially from a kiosk on the promenade, just behind the beach. No sooner than he had opened the packet, the dozen little flags inside, which were the national flags of more countries than he knew existed, were grabbed from his hand by a violent gust of wind, scattering and disappearing totally, utterly, irretrievably. This disaster was so unexpected and so complete that he was numbed with shock and did not even cry. In fact he was surprised at his own bravery. Still dry-eyed he soon found himself trotting along the promenade in the midst of the family, licking a consoling ice-cream. But then he caught sight of something wonderful, a device he’d never seen before, and that was a multi-coloured windmill. It was tied to another toddler's pushchair and was spinning furiously in the breeze as it passed by. The owner of the desirable object was not even looking at it and, unbelievably, seemed to have an expression of boredom on her face. A sense of his own recent loss and a desire to own such a beautiful thing overwhelmed him. Two quiet requests to his parents were followed by a more forceful plea which in turn led to a tantrum that even by his standards was one to remember. But despite standing in his parents’ path, barring their way and screaming as loudly as he was able, no windmill was going to be bought for him and the world appeared wholly bleak and cruel.
At breakfast the next morning his outlook had long since improved, with thoughts of windmills and lost flags dismissed and the world again full of promise. He had the vague impression that his cheery mood contrasted with that of the other four. They seemed to have lost their high spirits of the previous day but he had no idea why. He finished his boiled egg and, bored with a serious conversation he could not follow, slipped off the tall hotel chair and started to explore the territory under the table. As he crawled amongst the legs, both human and oak, he felt some surprise that for once no notice was being taken of such behaviour in a public place. By the time that he had re-emerged, tired of this normally forbidden activity, the discussions had ceased and he was told, gently, that they had all decided it would be better to return home that morning, rather than to stay on as they had intended. Daddy would go and get the car filled up while the rest of them had a last look at the sea.
On the promenade he was persuaded, against his better judgement, to accept the treat of a ride on a children’s roundabout. He was lifted into a small car, painted pink. He grasped the steering wheel and was overcome with self-consciousness as he found himself going round and round in front of a ring of grown-ups. These mums and dads were paying the children on the roundabout much more attention than usual. But he felt that they were all looking just at him. He bowed his head, overcome with self-consciousness, and sat for an eternity with his eyes focused on a sheet of metal in front of his knees beyond the steering wheel. It was like a tiny, enclosed world, painted pink, just like the maps of the British Empire, and flecked with rust. Finally to his immense relief the ride came to an end. He was lifted out of the car and he snuggled up to his mother where at last nobody seemed to be looking at him. She put her arm around him and seemed to press him to her side even more closely than she normally did.
They walked back to the hotel where the father had already put the suitcases in the car. As they drove off the little boy obediently gave the sea a final wave and told it he would come back as soon as he could. He nestled up beside his sister on the rear seat of the car and looked sadly out of the window at the houses and shops which lined the road out of Blackpool. As they passed a newsagent's there was a hoarding outside. If he had been able to read, it would have told him: “Latest News: German Troops Invade Holland and Belgium, Threaten France”. No one spoke. The little black Ford headed south towards Birmingham, towards the safety of home.