Growing up in Canberra,I was an only child. More than 85 per cent of Australians live within 50 kilometres of the sea. I was among the other 15 per cent. Saltwater didn’t come naturally to a landlubber like me.
One fondly remembered beach holiday as a boy:the author,Peter Papathanasiou,right,with his cousin Matt.Supplied
But first we had to get there. The trip to the coast was filled with its own anxieties. It involved traversing the steep and precarious Clyde Mountain,squeezed within the Great Dividing Range. Dad’s unwieldy 4.1-litre Ford Cortina often towed a motorboat around tight corners as traffic piled up behind us. In the back seat,I became carsick and distressed at the prospect of leaving the winding road. Trucks often lost control or suffered brake failure. Rock slides were common after rain. Mum sometimes sat with me in the back,or let me ride in the front. But nothing seemed to assuage my fears.
At Batemans Bay,we always stayed at my uncle’s house. He was a friendly bloke who liked to go fishing and boating with my dad and play backgammon and poker. But my uncle was also an alcoholic,and his tiny house became neglected after his wife died one Christmas Eve. It became depressing to go there. To this day,Mum can’t watchCarols by Candlelight without thinking of my late aunt.
The beach itself was a lonely experience for me. I invariably spent the week knocking about on my own,looking for other kids,exploring the beach and its scrubby surrounds. After half a day of aimless wandering,I was bored. Unable to swim competently,I was afraid to go into the water. There were jellyfish to be stung by. There were gallons of saltwater to swallow.
My friends back home continued to play in grassy parks and backyards. They swam in clean,creatureless swimming pools and went to air-conditioned cinemas for holiday blockbusters.
Of all our arduous holidays on the coast,I remember only one I enjoyed. For a change,my parents booked a rental home at Batemans Bay’s Surf Beach that we shared with my older cousin,Matt,and his parents. For one glorious,timeless week,Matt and I shared a bedroom like lifelong brothers. We ate lemony fish and salty chips and splashed in the waves and played beach cricket until the watery summer light faded. We played hours of Uno and Monopoly. Lying in our bunk beds,we laughed and talked ourselves to sleep.
My parents said we’d do it again another year,but we never did.
Dad died in 2016,a year after my uncle. The ghosts of holidays past haunted me. But my life was so much different. Now I was a dad with three young kids of my own.
Bill Papathanasiou,the author’s father,who died in 2016..Supplied
And now I knew the vast Australian coastline was intimately linked to our cultural identity. It influences our lifestyle,our artistic creativity. It drives much of our national economy and industry.
The beach was where so many families flocked for vacations. Rental cabins and beach houses,campsites and retro-caravans and pimped-out campervans were all now available. Or there were serene houseboats for nearby rivers. My sons needed to see the ocean,to splash and stumble,to make misshapen sandcastles and collect fragile shells. And I wanted to be there to share those experiences. Somehow,I needed to let go of my past.
Just before Christmas,I strapped the kids in their booster seats and hit the Kings Highway east. To my relief,the journey to the coast was vastly improved. Corners were smoother,the road was wider,and overtaking lanes were frequent. And now towns along the way,such as Braidwood and Bungendore,were destinations in their own right.
When we reached our rental house at Broulee,it was clean and modern. I had the kids to keep me busy and engaged. They were fascinated by everything,inquisitive and bold. I watched them frolic in the warm water and on the sand. They wrestled with each other and jumped all over their strangely emotional father. The food was sublime,fresh and tasty and diverse. And the locals were friendly. They were glad to see visitors back after years of devastating bushfires and lockdowns.
My three sons:Peter Papathanasiou’s boys get their beach adventure.Supplied
I tried to find my late uncle’s house but I couldn’t.
My parents did their best with our holidays when so many other families couldn’t afford one. They wanted to show me a fun time and to broaden my world view. I just didn’t expect such scars to linger,and nor did they. But scars fade. Once I dreaded the all-Australian beach holiday. Now I treasure the very thought.
A beach convert:Peter Papathanasiou.Supplied
Peter Papathanasiou is an author of several books. His latest,a crime novel calledThe Invisible,was published in September in Australia and Britain.
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