I am on a brief sojourn. Four days at the beach with Mlle. F. and Mlle. M., whom, since time appears to be ignoring linearity, are 4y 9m and 2y 8m respectively. The kids are important, evidently, as are their ages.
We’re at Whangamata, a place I’ve been coming for 30 years. A place where out of the peak season (i.e., now) you can weave all over the road on your bicycle with impunity, as long as it’s back road. Not because you’re an arse, but because you’re 4. Or because you’re 38 with a 2 year old on your parcel rack who likes to look around. Whangamata is a place where you can wear whatever you like, pop into an astonishingly good cafe and feel at home, and feel miles and miles from home… Aided entirely by that photo in the photo below.
That is the work of Barend Beukes. Photographer, chef, surfer, vinyl collector, lovely human. I hope the outstretched arm of lady diner handing paper to gentleman diner gives you idea of the scale of the print, it’s big. And sitting with my girls today sipping fluffies and nomming scone, we all took some time to take it in. I can’t tell you much more about it, but I can tell you the effect it had: As we left, I found myself looking to make sure my camera was safely nestled in a bag or something, I wasn’t carrying one.
We carried on, via bikes, Whangamata still being the kind of place where we could cruise down the main street, languidly. Stopping to buy me new jandals and jumper. Stopping to chat to Aunty Susan who we bumped into on the footpath.
The day carried on much like that… Five books with Mlle. M. while her elder sister caught a nap. And then a very poor fishing trip to the wharf, it was blustery and lumpy, I missed the tide and it was just all-round shit. But still, we had a wharf to ourselves, and when Mlle. F. wasn’t looking I tugged her line and there was some excitement for the day.
We latterly decided to go to the estuary and found a sheltered nook where we swam, rolled around in the sand, collected treasure, spoke to snails, spooked flounder, quizzled at seagulls doing the stamp-stamp-wiggle-wiggle-shimmy-shimmy-peck-poke-eat dance. Time (still doing that thing it’s been doing) snuck past me and it was supper o'clock. So we retreated to the ute, brushed practical sand away, donned jumpers and ordered fish and chips from Estuary Takeaways and Store, slurping chocolate milk while we waited for our order to cook.
Finally retiring to Dad’s place, where we’re staying, we were a composition roughly 60% chips, 15% tomato sauce, 15% sand, 5% snot and 5% salt. A long outdoor shower in the heart-shaped-clamshell-paddling-pool, jammies, stories, snuggles and bed.
I’m detailing this day to get to my point. When the girls were tucked in, wetsuits washed, car and bach tidied, I grabbed a shower too. And since the weather has finally dropped from 30ºc days and 25ºc nights… I took the opportunity of 16ºc to slide into the jumper we bought me earlier in the day. The I stopped, and sent a selfie to Mme. L.
Mme. L., who is abroad attending Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, immediately confirmed “it’s a motorcycle jumper?”, and earned her and her badgers 100 points. And this is where it turns to me. I’ve been a pretty good Dad today. When I’ve been too grumpy, I’ve noticed and corrected. When I’ve been too lax, no-one’s been lost. I’ve sort of managed to be in a flow, that’s worked today. When Mme. L. is away I bolt here to be surrounded by Dad (Grandy), his indefatigable wife (Grandma Chris), my sister (Aunty Amy), because I can be a bit of shambles solo. But time ameliorates many things… and it appears that 4.75 years of hashtag-dad-life on, I’m kind of nearly there. I’m pretty chuffed really. It’s nice to pass the experiences of my summers 30 years ago on to my own kin, with just enough “you’ve got this”, “OI!”, and “oh you poor thing”, mixed in.