With enough kids to fill out an entire basketball roster, keeping an eye on us all was a task new-age parents today couldn’t even fathom. No helicopter, single engine plane or hovercraft parenting here. Just some good ol’-fashioned rules. And two loving parents who struck fear inside all of us.
The beach presented the most dangers. We learned about rips, knew how to swim and weren’t scared of the water. But even then, Dad had a hard and fast rule – no surfing out the back unless you were old enough and good enough.
Up until I was 12, I was resigned to frolicking around the shore with my little sisters and brother. But come this holiday, I was ready. I couldn’t stand being in the shallows and Dad and my older brothers were out the back, carving it up. So I broke protocol.
I didn’t care about the consequences – the belt, the jug cord, the ruler or whatever else my parents could conjure up. I needed to be out the back and it was time to prove myself.
So I grabbed a board and paddled straight out, knowing full well Dad wouldn’t have a bar of it. Like you react to a salesman at a Chinese market trying to sell you ‘good deal’ for double the product’s value, Dad just laughed, shook his head and pointed to the shore. But I was determined. I screamed out to him, ‘I can do this’. And he just grinned. Challenge accepted.
I DIDN’T CARE ABOUT THE CONSEQUENCES – THE BELT, THE JUG CORD, THE RULER OR WHATEVER ELSE MY PARENTS COULD CONJURE UP.
If memory serves correct, I punished the wave like Christian Grey would a sex slave and cemented myself as a ‘big kid’ there and then. Looking back, I should never have crossed that threshold. Because what came along with being a big kid was housework, babysitting and having to help Dad with the landscaping. If only I weren’t such a talented surfer . . .