Camber: tragedy and tragicomedy

Camber Sands is one of those magical places that you sometimes find on the English coast. Miles of dunes, followed by miles of beaches, with the sea beyond – sometimes a long way beyond, because it’s shallow and when the tide’s out, you can walk over two or three hundred metres of sand before you reach the water.

Since it’s in the south, it can even be reasonably warm at times.

Camber Sands: charming. But maybe deceptively

It’s amusing how nothing makes a day out more memorable than its going comprehensively wrong. My wife and I, accompanied by some friends and assorted kids, decided to head for Camber on a day visit way back in 1989. We’d lived in Hastings for a while and we remembered that Camber wasn’t that far away. Sadly, as it turned out, it was rather further away than our memory suggested. What’s worse, it was further away in a completely different direction.

It’s amazing – well, actually, not particularly amazing – how much longer it takes to get to a place if you look for it for it in, well, the wrong place. With kids, you always leave late. With an extra hour and a half added to the trip to find Camber in the first place, it meant we were only going to get two or three hours on the beach before we headed back.

I was in a lousy temper by the time we finally got there.

It turned out that things had barely started to go wrong. Because within minutes of our hitting the beach, we found that our youngest son was, well, nowhere to be found. He’d vanished. Considering he was five, this was not particularly good news. Considering the beach is long and it was crowded, we could see the news wasn’t going to get any better any time soon. Considering the state we were already in, it was obvious this wasn’t going to do any of us much good.

We hunted up and down the beach. We asked people if they’d seen any sign of him. We looked in the dunes, behind umbrellas, occasionally with our hearts in our mouths, out to sea.

It didn’t help that we kept asking people whether they’d seen a little boy in a red shirt and tan shorts. Because when, after a two-hour search, we finally did find him, he was wearing absolutely nothing at all. Nothing, that is, other than a completely innocent, even slightly plaintive expression, as though to say, “What? What? What’s your problem? It’s a beach, isn’t it? We’re here to have fun, aren’t we? And I’ve been having fun, haven’t I?”

All this came back to mind when I heard about the five young men who decided to travel down to Camber, from London, for a fun day out, in the glorious sun earlier this week. Who could blame them? The conditions could hardly have been better.

And yet, near a beach full of people, all five lost their lives in that idyllic place. Bystanders tried to help and rescue services arrived by helicopter but, even so, none of them survived.

What happened? It still isn’t clear. It’s possible that they wandered out all that distance when the water was out, and then were caught when the tide came ripping back in, as it does when the sea’s shallow. If they weren’t strong swimmers, they might have found the current and the deep channels between sandbanks too difficult to manage. 

A dismal tale.

My wife and I naturally thought back to that day and the little lost boy. How easily an annoyance could have turned into a disaster. The beach was crowded that day too, but what good does that do? The people on the beach tried to save the five young men and couldn’t. 

Our son could so easily have drowned.

Though, to be fair, there were times that day when I was ready to inflict a far more painful fate on him.

We never did find his clothes, by the way. Not even his sandals.

Parenting. We do it so well. Simply by instinct.

“Will you cut that out?” yelled the exasperated mother from the swimming pool changing cubicle behind mine, her voice battling with the sound of the wailing child.

The injunction had the effect you’d expect. The child’s crying grew louder.

“Honestly, it’s always the same. You just have to go and spoil everything.”

A louder explosion of wailing.

“Every time. You just can’t stop yourself.”

A pause. Sobbing.

“Well, don’t think you’re going to have any friends. You’re just a horrible little girl. No one’s going to come over to see a horrible little girl like you. Clara isn’t coming.”

More sobs.

“And Caroline isn’t coming either. No, she isn’t. Why should she come and see such a horrible little girl?”

New outburst of wailing, with some barely distinguishable words.

“Sorry? No, you’re not sorry. Why would a horrible little girl be sorry?”

The wailing dies to sobs, to whimpers, to soft crying as the child regains control.

in a shaky voice: “I really am sorry, Mummy.”

“No you’re not. But you will be.”

The wailing starts up again.

The great test we all just naturally know how to pass

Life calls on many of us to do two key jobs, with little preparation.

For one of them, staff management, we are at least able to call on some training, such as it is, though it isn’t much: usually abstract with little bearing on everyday business life. It’s all Drucker and Maslow and countless other academics, but little to do with the team member who’s missed another deadline, but also happens to be a harassed mother let down by her childminder.

For our other great responsibility, parenting, we generally receive no training at all. Especially now that we no longer live in extended families, with grandparents and older siblings around to offer the gentle, tangential hint that there might be a better way of doing things. And occasionally a little help.

Bringing up a whole new generation, securing the longevity of our species, we do by the seat of our pants.

But then, as the exchange I overheard at the pool confirms, we’re just naturally born to do it well. As Bill Bailey would put it, we take it to it like a duck to a pancake roll.

Who needs training?

Bringing up kids - it's a doddle. Part 2

It’s a cliché that real life can be stranger than fiction, but it’s still surprising to find it confirmed by personal experience.

Some weeks ago I wrote a tongue-in-cheek piece about how easy it is to adapt to life with children. So it was amusing to overhear a train conversation between a recent parent and a soon-to-be new parent which demonstrated just how easy the arrival of a child could be.

Let me point out in passing that it’s not insignificant that both were men.

If you can conjure up ‘estuary English’, then please read the dialogue below in a pronounced form of that accent. If you don’t know that variety of English, spoken on either side of the Thames Estuary, imagine lots of flattened vowels and glottal stops. Add to the mix the fact that there are connotations to the accent, and the stronger it is, the more powerful they are. For instance, it's probably wiser to get a used car checked out by a reliable third party before buying one from a speaker of advanced Estuarine. Which is ironic, since one part of the dialogue I overheard went like this.

‘Yeah, just keeps conking out and then it takes ages to get it to start again. I’m going to have to buy a new one. I’m thinking of going for a five series this time.’ The BMW is, naturally, the trademark car of this group of people.

‘Oh, it’s a great car. You’re going to be really pleased with it.’

‘But then I have to decide what to do with my current one. I don’t think it can be fixed.’

‘Sell it.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yeah, why not? Sell it cheap. They can get it repaired.’

‘Actually, my sister-in-law wants it. To come and see us. There’d be hell to pay if she broke down on the way.’

But I anticipate. The conversation started when the one I think of as Man 2 flopped down in the seat next to me, opposite Man 1 who was working on his laptop.

‘Hey, how are you?’ said Man 1. ‘Good to see you. How are things going?’

‘It’s mental [think ‘men’al’]... so much to do...’ replied Man 2, ‘I felt I just had to take the time to clear my head...’ From the smell of his breath, clearing his head meant clouding his judgement.

‘I suppose you have to be getting into baby mode.’

‘Oh no, he’ll be asleep by the time I get back... hey you must be getting ready yourself? When’s yours due?’

‘Yeah, the 24th... I’m getting terrified... did it change your life a lot?’

Pause. ‘Naah... people say things will change... but basically you just cope with it, it’s cool...’

‘So – how old is he now?’

‘He’s four months in four days.’

‘Wow – keeping you awake at night is he?

‘I didn’t wake up till 6:30 this morning.’

‘You mean – he’s sleeping through?

‘No, but he’s breastfeeding’

‘Oh, ri-i-ight,’ said Man 1 knowingly. ‘So, you’re off the hook. Now I see why you’re always looking so fresh.’

‘Yeah, it’s good. Bit tough on Roberta, what with all the baby walking classes, baby gymnastics, baby swimming and so on. Still, gets her out of the house. And it’s nice for her to meet the other mums.’

So that’s the answer. What you need is a Roberta at home. Then she can have lots of fun with the other Mums as she looks after baby on her own, you can come back to find baby already asleep after your hard day’s work in the drinks industry (wasn’t it inevitable that they were in that particular branch?) and turn in for a restful night safe in the knowledge that if baby wants feeding, Roberta will be there with her built in milk-delivery equipment.

The essential household appliance to ease
the strain of young fatherhood: a Roberta

See? Like I said, having a baby need barely change your life at all. Really.

Parenthood: pure delight at minimal cost

For some reason, I seem to be surrounded these days by people who have young children or are thinking of producing some.

In my usual spirit of dedication to public service, I feel it’s time to add to my previous store of invaluable advice on the art of parenting by addressing some of the frequently asked questions that come up in discussions of this thorny subject.

1. Will having a child change my life fundamentally?
   There’s no reason why the impact should be at all significant if you have already moved all breakable objects to at least one metre above floor level, are indifferent to how much sleep you get at night, aren’t interested in going out or even relaxing in the evenings, don’t care how stained your clothes get and have decided to break with any childless friends who might be upset if their precious crockery gets damaged.

2. Does the difficult period last a long time?
   Not at all. 25 years can flash by. You’d be surprised.

3. Is it expensive to bring up children?
   Far from it. Compared to things that we take for granted like a manned space programme, it barely registers. Why, there are football players who are paid more than it costs to raise a child.

4. Will the presence of children means an end to all tranquillity? No reason to think so, if you can just learn to be tranquil when surrounded by hordes of children – and three kids make an impressive horde – who are rushing up and down your stairs, watching your TV and eating your food. Birthday parties are the real test of your Zen qualities. Indeed, once your kids are into their adolescence your adherence to Buddhist principles may be such that you will be fully ready to abandon your attachment to the wheel of being and, indeed, help several other people to abandon theirs.

5. Is it true that kids are always ill and always complaining?
   This is a particularly vile slander. I know many children who are well and pleasantly disposed for several days a year.

Aaah...

6. Is it rewarding?
   Of course it is. All you have to do is survive long enough to see them produce kids of their own, make all the same mistakes as they criticised you for and be subject to the same responses as they made you suffer.

Nothing to it, you see. Can't see what holds anyone back.