Our house overlooks an estuary, which fills and empties each day, according to the tide. When out exploring, one must be careful to avoid high tide, as it’s easy to become trapped on the sandbank that separates the lagoon from the sea. This past weekend, my son and I learned this the hard way. After a busy week of working and writing, I was keen to get out and do some exploring in the fresh air – while the sun still shone. I checked the tidal times and saw we had a two-hour window before high tide. Thinking this was enough, we set out and took the usual route, over the sand and across the river, via the red box, and then along the edge of the lagoon on the opposite side of the estuary. As we progressed towards the sandbank, it was evident the tide was coming in, and it was coming in fast. My son suggested we turn back but I – the wise, experienced adult – insisted we plough on, thinking we could walk beyond the sandbank to the next beach where we could arrange a pick-up. After reaching the dunes that overlooked the sea, it became clear there was no way we were going any further. The tide had come in, blocking the route. I checked my phone and realized that not only was the high tide imminent but also, that it was a spring tide as well – meaning the waters would be even higher than usual. We retraced our steps to the lagoon and found it to be two-thirds full already, and the only way back would be to walk all the way around the estuary – a distance of a mile at least. My son – five years old – was getting tired and this would be a difficult walk. But I had no idea how difficult it would be.
By the time, we had reached the red box, a third or so along the length of the estuary, the lagoon was filled and raging waters continued to stream into the area. I found myself wading in the cold seawater carrying my son and unable to move further up the headland due to the dense thicket that lined the estuary. We stopped frequently at boulders that lined the lagoon and watched as the waters became wilder and the usually calm and serene space was overwhelmed by the stormy sea. We pushed on, with me now carrying my son continuously, my wellies overwhelmed, and the water now reaching my waist. At the next boulder, we stopped, and I phoned my wife, asking if she could come out with the paddleboard to help us. In a few minutes, after dashing down to the water’s edge, she phoned back in a panicky voice to say the stormy waters were far too risky to navigate and feared any attempts to cross it would end up with her being blown out of the channel and out to sea.
The surrounding water was now deep, and to carry on would mean swimming. Alone, I might have considered this, but with my boy in tow, I decided to stay where we were. I wrapped him in my coat, and he sat happily on the boulder as I weighed up options. We talked about favourite Star Wars characters. I didn’t want him to panic and be traumatized by the experience – but that was getting more difficult by the minute. Looking at options, we could stay where we were – the tide would hopefully recede in a few hours to allow us to walk back. But I was soaked and shivering, half treading water, so this would not be practical. We considered phoning the coastguard for help. That would be the next option, but first, we would try one thing.
I was able to leap from the boulder onto the thicket, and I realized that if I could climb over this dense mess of thorn-covered twigs, bramble branches, and stinging nettles, we could navigate our way further up the hill – on dry land – to the end of the estuary as planned. I went first and dove onto the thicket to flatten it somewhat so that we could cross it; I reached back over and lifted my boy from the boulder and dropped him on the other side in the small clearing between the trees. There at least we were dry. The hill was steep and the vegetation dense, but it was far more navigable than the frozen, stormy waters of the lagoon. Our spirits rose as the journey became more manageable and – dare I say it – fun as we pretended to be explorers working our way through an exotic jungle in some far-off land. We reached the end of the lagoon and crossed back over into the estuary, this time into a wetland space that was a tough walk, but still, far more straightforward than our earlier aquatic route. At the river, realizing we would need to walk a further few minutes to the bridge, expecting the waters to be shallow, and considering my already soaked body, I didn’t give much thought to wading across. My son protested, and again, I said it would be fine. However, what I hadn’t considered was that recent heavy rain had made it considerably deeper and as I stepped in, I was swallowed whole by the freezing freshwater. I jumped out and pointed to the bridge. My son nodded and gave me a look I interpreted as, “idiot.” At the bridge, we met my wife, who welcomed us both with a warm car, blankets, and hot chocolate.
Sat in the car, shivering, limbs covered in cuts and scratches, overwhelmed by shock, and staring at my water-damaged, dead phone, I explained what happened. I was reminded of the time in Singapore when we spotted an equatorial spitting cobra while out on a hike and – very excited – I tried to run after it into the jungle. At the time, my daughter – who was six – grabbed my arm, shook her head, and told me not to. I heeded her advice.
Whitney Houston sang, ‘the children are our future, teach them well and let them lead the way.’ My lesson from the experience is that old Whitney was right: listen to your children and maybe – sometimes – let them lead the way. I didn’t give mine enough credit for their sensible suggestions and savvy risk assessments, and that is a learning I shall take and try to keep in mind the next time I get caught up in my own over-excitement and buffoonery.
