Black Rocks and Sparkling Seas

Last week we gathered for my father’s funeral. Though sad, still sad, it was a very happy occasion. He had asked that we lay on a party that he would’ve loved to be at. We certainly did that and he was greatly missed. My brother and sister both spoke at the service and I wrote the piece following this introduction, which was printed in the Order of Service.

My parents divorced many years ago and both went on to have very happy and successful relationships with other wonderful people. They remained great friends. That past and beautifully revised relationship was not marked during the service and I wished that there had been a way to acknowledge it. So, whilst this piece is about my Dad, it is also a way of honouring my Mum, their time together and the wonderful childhood they both made for us.

Black Rocks and Sparkling Seas

Since Dad died, my memories of him have all included water: cold and brown, foaming across rock worn into dark hollows by the river; beaches where the lure of the sea meant there wasn’t time to lie in the sun; boats decked with good cheer and uncertain destinations – sailing boats, motor boats, rowing boats. My first time snorkelling, my last time diving. A childhood in which adventure thrived.

The car was packed. Mum and Dad in the front, us three in the back; no seats, the luggage made the seats. Tents and bags sculpted to resemble a place for us to sit rather than a disaster waiting to happen. It was covered with three blue sleeping bags that would make our scant beds once we arrived. I am not sure how long the journey was but we seemed to slide about on top of the luggage for days, getting hotter and hotter as we headed South, finally crossing on the tatty ferry to Porquerolles. Then, it wasn’t the luxurious resort it reportedly is now. It was a beautiful, rough little island with beaches and a campsite, a town with a square where an old man and a monkey vaguely harassed visitors and shops which sold harsh red wine by the plastic litre bottle.

We camped with two other families; ten or so children become a feral tribe, barefoot and brown for what seemed like a whole carefree summer. Dad, then long-haired and medallion-wearing, spent hours in the sea with us, chasing, throwing, racing, pulling rafts, crashing and diving through the surf. He was shoulders to stand on and dive from; an inexhaustible engine towing us across the waves; an accomplice in those long and happy weeks of beach life.

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A few years ago, Dad and I went on a dive at Black Rock in Brighton. It was a fairly grim October day, there was a vicious surge. Visibility was around one metre. Don’t even ask about the temperature of the water. At around ten metres depth we got to see the tracks of the bizarre Victorian railway that for a while cruised above the sea along the Brighton front. It wasn’t quite the same as the snorkelling that Dad had taught us on those French holidays – seeing a bright green octopus fifteen metres below in crystal clear water of Porquerolles, then diving for sea urchins which we ate with a teaspoon on the beach. But it had the same sense of adventure, of things being possible. Dad was the first diver in the family, engaging keenly with laborious BSAC training in Reading pool and off a brownish beach in Swanage. We all caught the bug eventually – though we smartly took up the sport in light-weight tropical waters.

Dad took Joe sailing in Scotland and the Channel Islands, in companionship with his brother Sim and his friend David and their sons. Happy adventures on top of the sea rather than in or under it – though tales leaked after the fact reveal that it was occasionally a fairly close-run thing.

On trips to Wales, we would walk for hours, finding rivers to swim and streams to dam. Damming a stream could become an epic mission of opportunistic engineering, using mud, branches, moss, stones; a library of local materials pressed into experiment and service. I can still feel the bite of cold in the bones of my wrist, the wet cuff of a coat a zinging reminder once the return leg of the walk resumed. There was one river where dad would sit above us, blocking the flow of water that fell from a narrow channel of rock. Once we were in the right spot he’d unplug the flow and it would come whooshing onto us – the daft thrill of anticipating a sudden surge of freezing, sinus-warping unpleasantness; we loved it.

As well as building or being a dam he’d take us to look at them. The three of us squinting into a sun that bleached our vision as if the sight were already a fading polaroid. I do remember being impressed with the various sizes. But I also remember not having a clue as to why we were there. Of course, now I see it. We were there to wonder. And what a gift. Life is an adventure, life is full of wonder. Look at it children, look at it with joy and see what you can make of it.

What a blessing. With all my heart, thank you Dad. For all of it.