The English hear this song. It vibrates into the core of their bones and it calls to them like sirens from the deep. It is a most beautiful siren causing the outcome so predictable. As the song rises up from their gut to their heart, their arms are already moving over towels and sun screens and wind-breakers.
The English with their hats and sandals in tow – off to the beach they go. Like flocking flamingoes in a lagoon, the English descend upon the golden shores. Smiles begin to beam as their eyes flicker across the treasure that glistens at them. Their tongue moves across their cracked lips as they gaze at the shimmering sea waves that curl and flop on the surface of the sand.
In packs they hunt for the right spot. Their own personal roasting tray.
Once found, they mark their territory with flags of triumph.
Here be our treasure.
Here is where we shall bake our pasty skin.
Here is where our children shall tunnel to Australia.
Here is where we shall master the art of changing into our swimming costume without a hint of skin and with little effort. This gymnastic art will be achieved with wiggles and shimmering bottoms as the clothes go off and the costume goes on – all under the mask of the beach towel. No flesh will be seen.
Trousers rolled up to our knees, swimming costumes on, armbands to the ready. Here we go.
Splash. Splash. Gurgle. Gulp. Shiver.
We remember quickly that we cannot swim and we hobble out of the freezing pit of ice. Yet we are proud of our sea swim. The sea has been conquered for this year.
We glance and we see: red lobster women with sunglasses, sand castles being engulfed in a tsunami, sandy sandwiches, whirlwind sand storms, water fights, BBQs smoking out the family next door, screaming children holding threatening weapons of buckets and spades, mums sighing, dads playing practical jokes, flirty flirts and ice cream consuming.
We sigh. It’s a good day for the beach.