7am. Wake, check email (still no work), get out of bed, urinate, put on boxers, make coffee, eat two spoonfuls of cold porridge, strap ten foot mal to roof-racks, drive 30 minutes of winding country roads to the north-eastern corner of the closest beach. Riding shotgun are my wife (term used loosely) and two year old daughter. Bucket and spade, board, towel, wax, sunscreen, shorts, keys. March down sandy track through thick coastal scrub to king tide line for grand reveal.
Sun shimmers, Super 8 Kodachrome, dribbling one foot waves close out close to shore. Children splash, mums lather, dads drift.
“You go first, I’ll build sandcastles” she offers.
Almost always lets me go first, knows I’ll be quicker than her, three waves in ten minutes, it’s only fair. The…
