Treat the sea with respect. This was a stern message from an early age. Borne, I suspect from her early experience of picnicking on a beach in Bury Port, South Wales, with a matriarchal mixture of mothers, aunts and Grandmothers and being stranded on a sandbank by the rapidly incoming tide. The joy of being rescued on the shoulders of her father who was one of the many men who waded across to rescue them had left an indelible memory that the sea should not be messed with.
Today in The Times was a glorious headline:
Wife, 65, grabs handbag and swims for cruise ship in search of husband
Well, it's what we ladies of a certain age do, if we get to the airport in Madeira where we have decided to end our four week cruise four nights early, and we can't find our husband. We immediately assume (given that we have had a bit of a public tiff on the boat) that he has sailed on by. But we are made of sterner stuff. We take a taxi to the harbour and not letting go of the handbag we jump in the sea and swim to catch up with the Marco Polo.
Three hours later, you'll be pleased to hear, she was rescued, 500km from the shore. Impressive, but lunatic.
But the tale it inspires me to tell, does not cover me with pride. Both Dearest and I come out of it smelling of seaweed.
About ten years ago, when certainly old enough to have known better, and not so old that my mother's advice long forgotten, Dearest and I re-visited Trebeurden, staying in a wonderful hotel called Ti Al-Lannec in Brittany. We walked down to the harbour on a beautiful day. But that was not sufficient for my venturesome husband. He'd always wondered what that island was like just across the way... Yes the one we could walk to over those rocky outcrops exposed in the glistening sand.
I saw no harm in walking across to the island, keeping a weather eye open on the distant tide line, but when he said, "Let's just have a quick look round the island," I did initially demur saying I thought we really ought not to push our luck.
But there were no messages for English idiots saying, 'Watch out, morons, there are tides, you could be stranded', because the French aren't a namby-pamby bunch like us Brits.
I nevertheless made sure that we hurtled round the really unremarkable island at top speed, but it came as no real surprise to the pessimist in me, to see upon our return, our sandy route covered by swirling tide. No phone signal. No passing boats to the rescue, totally stranded.
Two fishermen in wetsuits with their catch slung over their shoulders appeared out of nowhere. In hideous French (I know no other kind) I established that no, there would be no passing boat, ferry or helicopter, and the tide would be back out again at 12 midnight. How were they getting back? They were going to wade back (they were dressed for the part, obviously) and we could if we wanted, follow them.
And this dear, reader, is what we did. Fully-clothed with water, chest-high, I exaggerate not, and as chilly as you could possibly imagine. "Hope you have a strong heart!"smiled our lead guide.
Dearest got a signal on his phone halfway across, as he held it above the waves. The office will always find him. And so it was, that we did the most wittingly dangerous and stupid thing in our entire lives.
That is why I am not judgemental of the lady with the handbag, and why when I go on a cruise later this year I will not be letting Dearest out of sight.
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| Survivors' souvenir |
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