JANET and I were in Flamborough last week when an awful memory came flooding back.
“If thar uses inflatable dinghy, beware off-shore winds,” says the bearded man in the sailor’s hat who leased us the caravan.
“Off-shore winds?”
“Off-shore winds,” echoes the fella, ominously. “They’ll whip up in a trice and blow thi reight out into t’North Sea.”
It’s the spring half-term of 1982, and we’re on our first family holiday at Thornwick Bay Caravan Park, Flamborough. We’ve got the whole bay to ourselves, so onto the pale sands we plod, rolling out our beach mats and weighing them down using large chalk pebbles. My wife wedges the beach ball between two towel-bags whilst me and my son, Asa, inflate the dinghy with a foot pump.
The dinghy is sturdy – far more durable than the cheaper type on sale at promenade gift shops. When it’s fully inflated, Asa and I drag it using the attached ropes, over the sand and lines of seaweed, to the water’s edge. We pull it into the water until we’re thigh-deep, and I notice the turquoise sea is clear enough for me to observe my toes sinking into the sand. Blackpool this is not.
I lift my son into the boat and then I manage to jump and belly-flop into it, reaching for the single paddle. The adrenalin is pumping and I’m so pleased with myself I begin to sing the sailors’ song we learnt at junior school:
“A life on the ocean wave/ A home on the rolling deep/ Where the scattered waters rave/ And the wind their revels keep.
“Listen Shipmate,” I say to my son in my pirate’s voice. “What if we sail to yond island on the horizon? What do you think? All in favour say, aye!”
“Aye!” screams Asa as he looks in vain for the Island. “Let’s be pirates and sail to yond island and pinch some treasure, eh, dad?”
“I’m not your dad, Shipmate, I’m your captain.”
“Aye, aye, Captain Dad.”
It’s at that moment I become slightly uneasy. We haven’t sailed more than four metres from shore but the sea suddenly becomes menacingly deep. Blackpool this is not. I look down and gauge that the water would come above my head unless I used the rocks as stepping stones back to shore. However, I’m not too concerned because I’ve got my handy paddle to help row us back to shallower parts.
At that moment, however, the off-shore wind we were warned about begins blowing us further out to sea. I gulp and paddle like mad but in seconds the headwind gets so powerful we’re not moving any closer to shore despite my Herculean efforts. I feel my arms tiring like those of a weary boxer in the final round. I know I can’t ‘life-save’ because I can’t do breaststroke leg action. So I make an instant decision. Holding on to the boat’s rope I jump into the water onto a big flat white rock sticking up from the sea bed.
So far, so good. The water still comes up to my chest and the swell is pushing me hither and thither like a piece of swaying seaweed. I’m losing my balance so I take a gamble. Striding towards another rock nearer the shore I pull the dinghy after me. As I look down I can see the sandy seabed. Stepping off this rock I find my chin is fractionally above water. I’ve reached the shallows and we’re safe.
Asa and I pull the dinghy up the beach and weigh it down with some big white boulders. I daren’t tell his mother how close we came to disaster.
The off-shore wind blows even more fiercely and the beach ball wriggles free of its tethers and skips towards the sea. I’m in hot pursuit but it’s moving too fast. Once it’s in the water I know we’ll never see it again. Helplessly, we watch it float further and further away. When it’s little more than a speck, it disappears around the headland.
Forty minutes later, the wind direction reverts to an ‘easterly’, and in the distance I can just make out the prodigal beach ball on its return journey. Eventually it leaves the water and with the wind’s help, it returns to us like an errant family dog.
If you ever visit Flamborough, my advice is this: Blackpool it is not - so, whatever you do, Shipmates, beware the off-shore winds.
