A decent rubber dingy used to cost about ten pounds. These are not seaworthy for any great distance, but you can have great fun mucking about in the shallows. Although an obvious health and safety hazard, back then you chucked them into the water, and hoped you did not float to Calais.
My dinghy was four feet long. To me this was an unlimited fun machine. A pirate ship and explorer's caravel in one package. My first real experience of real estate. A piece of land that was mine.
One game I loved was flipping the dingy over to create a sort of submarine. If your feet still touch the bottom this works to perfection. The smell of plastic and sea salt combine, and your words echo in a private chamber.
The issue on a busy beach was a lack of windows. Swimmers get cross if they bounce off the side of your vessel. You have to find the more isolated spots. The spot by the rocks was perfect.
Now think about if you lived below the water. If one day a dark shape floated over your home, you would not assume this was a child, or a cloud passing over the moon. You would go straight to threat mode.
The sand exploded from underneath me. Although the thing had hands, this was where our kinship ended. Rivulets of sand poured from grey eyes. Freezing fingers grabbed at my legs. A mouth opened, and kept on opening beyond the point of a logical jaw.
Thank goodness I staggered back, and fought the resistance of the water. A rock bashed against me on my dash back to land, and I prayed the blood was not a tracer.
Dad must have spotted the messy hand stains on the rim of the boat. My pale face, and the constant rocking in the shadows, the submarine still aloft above my head.
