Kenton

Any hot Saturday, first year, 1990. Liam, Merve the Perla, The Fat Guy with the Beard, Slimer and I would pile towels, six packs and sunscreen into the U-Boat (Slimer the German’s 1964 Volvo) and head off down the cracked tar road through the pineapple fields to Kenton. Ray Ban wayfarers, the wind in our hair, and the irrepressibly bouncy, cheesy sound of the B52s in the tape deck. We were young, without a care, and a day at beach lay before us. Days like this, you got nostalgic for even as they were happening.

Shelley’s Cove

Park in the lot near the lagoon, grunt up the steep dune, through the milkwoods. Just as we neared collapse, breathless and knackered, we’d reach the top of the dune, hear the crash of the surf, and see one of the prettiest beaches in the world laid out below us, bracketed by a crescent cove of sun-bleached stone slopes. 

Merve the Perla: Fuckwit Extraordinaire

Our first time at the beach, Merve the Perla - a Bsc. Major - had the bright idea of keeping the beers cold by burying them deep in the cool sand. A well was dug, the six-packs interred, and a stick marked the spot. Needless to say, after much gambolling in the waves, we returned to find the stick had vanished. Much frantic digging ensued; hole after hole; till the beach looked like a family of oversize rabbits had moved in. The beers are still there, somewhere. 

U-Boat Speedo

While rest of us wore baggies, Slimer insisted on a grey Afrika Korps-issue speedo, that when mixed and matched with his pale skin and verdant body hair made for visually upsetting results. Coupled with the fact the he’d often stuff a rolled up rugby sock into the speedo, the ensemble gave him the air of a ‘70s porn star. He’d emerge from the waves with loaded lunchbox and the womenfolk would puzzle at this mysterious hirsute stranger bringing adventure, romance, and a hint of danger to their shores.

How the Bearded One Got his Name

On the way home, we’d cool off by jumping off the Kariega bridge, about a 13 metre drop into the icy high tide. We were all lined up at the bridge edge, waiting to jump, when a booze cruise boat hoved into view. “Jump!” they shouted. “You! The red-haired girl! Jump!”. So Tammy stepped off and plunged into the water. “You! The skinny one! Jump!” and I dutifully leapt. This carried on, til only one, let’s call him “Derek”, remained. “Uh… you! The… FAT GUY WITH THE BEARD! Jump, you bastard!” And thus, a nickname was born.

The Drive Home

They were good, golden days. We’d drive home lazily, sand grit sprinkled in our hair, saltwater on warm skin, squinting at the orange sundown on rolling hills stubbled with prickly pears. Hand out the window sill, sculling the cool breeze, smiling at a day well spent. I wish I’d spent more days there.