A day at the beach with the grandkids was not as relaxing as hoped. Photo / 123rf
Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief that laughter helps avoid frown lines. Page has been a journalist for many years and has been writing a column since 2017.
OPINION
This week Mrs P and I welcomed another grandchild into our growing fold.
The Little Tacker arrived, eventually, in the early hours of the other morning in Portsmouth, England, where No 1 Son is studying some surgical techniques for a year. His lady is there too. Obviously.
It would be fair to say the birth was greeted with great fanfare and delight on both sides of the globe.
The little boy entered the world around 4pm UK time – which was 4am before Sparrow Fart our time – after a whole day of labour.
It goes without saying all involved were extremely tired, as were Mrs P and I who got the phone call right at kick-off and hung in there for hourly updates all the way through the preceding day and night.
Thus, when we got together for a little breakfast celebration with the Boomerang Child and Builder Boy the day of Little Tacker’s arrival we were, well, pretty knackered and looking forward to a bit of quality shut-eye.
Unfortunately, the other grandkids on the scene had a different idea.
A picnic at the beach would be a great way to celebrate, they said. Well, if I’m being honest, the idea actually came from the Boomerang Child who clearly wanted to get out of the house for the day.
Builder Boy had gone to work and wasn’t available so Mrs P and I, full of early morning joy and enthusiasm, agreed.
Now don’t get me wrong. Any time spent with the littlies is to be cherished in my book. But the next day might have been better. After 12 hours minimum of solid slumber.
Unfortunately, I am a softie and I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint the excited duo as they ran around the house gathering all the items they needed to take to the beach.
Eventually, the pile of togs, towels, buckets and spades, balls, boogie boards, hats, more towels, beach chairs, sunglasses, sunscreen and a couple more towels – just for good measure – reached the point where an avalanche was likely and so Granddad was assigned the task of loading the car.
For the next 20 minutes day-to-day ute stuff was removed and stacked in the garage. Then all the togs, towels, balls, etc, etc, were thrown in, er, I mean strategically packed.
Job done, I went back inside to see how the girls were getting on and discovered a kitchen bench groaning under the strain as more and more bags and containers of food were added.
“Those are our snacks,” said Miss Three and a bit proudly surveying the feast.
Naturally the task of loading them into the vehicle fell to Granddad who figured all the exertion of packing would be worth it if he could have a bit of a doze in the sun on the sand. After one of Mrs P’s carefully constructed cheese and pickle sandwiches of course.
Anyway.
Eventually the caravan, consisting of two cars – one with me, the food, the towels and togs, etc, and George the three-legged dog. The other with Mrs P, the Boomerang Child and the two littlies – set off.
Some 30 minutes later we were in the carpark at a local beach, the sand and surf some 80 metres away down a grassy track.
No worries for this experienced bunch of beachgoers.
As Mrs P and the Boomerang Child strolled off with the two excited youngsters I set about loading our purpose-built beach cart with all the stuff we’d brought, ready to haul it down to our favourite location on the sand near the water.
But there was one problem. I’d forgotten to pack the beach cart.
It has to be said I was not exactly enamoured with the prospect of having to cart all that gear down to the girls. I figured there was probably three trips at least to get it all there. And that was with me balancing a ball on my head and holding a chilly bin in one hand and a beach chair in the other.
As I pondered the situation an idea came to mind.
Two months ago we’d bought one of those trailer things people use to transport the kids around attached to their bicycle.
We’d got an old second-hand one to see if George the dog would ride in it so we could keep walking when/if his three legs got tired of hopping along.
Unfortunately, he’d not been keen on getting into it at all so I’d dismantled it and put it on the floor in the back of the ute. Eventually we’d put it all together and on-sell it.
Today, it was about to become my saviour.
Thankfully all the necessary bits were there and it was fairly easy to put it back together. Twenty minutes later, with the girls wondering where on earth I’d gotten to, I rolled into camp pulling the coolest of three-wheel bike trailers along behind me like a rickshaw.
And it was loaded with all the gear and snacks we’d brought with us. One trip from the car. Easy.
Thankfully the kids were very excited to see all the snacks and immediately demanded sustenance.
This was good news for me too. Not only did it mean I might get a cheese and pickle sandwich quite soon, but there was also the chance I might get to have a little snooze now that all the gear was safely on the sand, as it were.
Oh, how wrong I was.
I did get the sandwich but any thought of 40 winks was torpedoed by Master 18 months who clambered into the tray of the bike trailer with a big smile on his face. It got even bigger as his sister picked up the steering arm and started pulling him around.
Giggles were followed by pleas for Granddad to take up the “reins” and before you could say “sleep deprivation” I was running up and down the beach trying to tire the little cherubs out.
It didn’t work.
In fact the only break I got from what seemed like running a marathon was when they insisted I dig a hole in the sand so they could sit in it.
After that I had to take them both for a paddle to wash all the sand off then it was back to the “horsey ride”.
Eventually the gods took pity on me and decided it was inhumane to subject my tired aching joints to any more fatigue and we packed up and headed for home.
Naturally I packed up everything and hauled it to the carpark and then took it out of the car once we got home.
Mrs P told me I had to do it very quietly.
Apparently the kids were so tired after their day at the beach they had fallen asleep within minutes of starting our return drive home and she didn’t want me to wake them.
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