African Cove

It certainly looked ominous. It lay long and dark from corner to corner of the turquoise horizon. A bank of cloud as black as night and growing silently. We were sunburnt with sand stung back legs as we hastily ended another shell-hunting day in our annual pilgrimage to a lesser known cove along the African coast. We'd never seen the sky change like that. By the time we made it back to ‘The Snuggle Pot', our quirky little holiday cottage, the winds were picking up more than pace. We were sucked in the front door as the first dustbin was hurled past the window. The sky turned brown with sand and debris.

The banana trees bowed down to the storm gods arriving on the tail-end of the hurricane. And then the rain came. My family stood, stunned and bikini clad in the lounge and watched the window panes creak against the lashing water. The air was filled with the sound of cracking, smashing and groaning as Mother Nature rolled up the beach towards us. We would have made a cup of tea and enjoyed the spectacle had she not decided to come in and join us! There was a fantastic screech as the metal roof peeled back above our heads...like a tin can. It was whisked away and deposited elsewhere.

The hungry tempest plucked power from the houses and down came the water! Soon filling up the several levels of the cottage it mixed up a soup of books, luggage, sandals and panic.The top room and kitchen were covered and we scurried to safety. Strangely, the storm passed as quickly as it had arrived. It left things ripped, broken and bedraggled. Oh...and an utterly ENORMOUS spider the size of a man's hand in the kitchen seeking refuge.

The next day was the most exciting for three sisters. A move to new, dry accommodation and then the much awaited 5 minute walk down to the beach to witness the wake of our dying hurricane. The shore had been devoured and regurgitated. Pieces of fishing boats and trees plucked from the coastline. Creatures from the deep dumped unceremoniously on the sand, stripped of their shells and casings. A dream find for children not raised to resist poking slimly, mucky things with the potential to sting post mortem! We had a blast.

It was our last stay in The Snuggle Pot, but by no means the last visit to Palm Beach. Each year we returned equiped with dogs, buckets, sunblock, novels and e-number laden drinks. No iPods or Blackberries, no computer games, digital cameras or dvds. The cottage didn't have a TV. We played Scrabble and Boggle and lay in vinegar baths to soothe sunburn and picked thorns from our feet. We had sibling spats and argued over double bunks and wild ocean views. We got hold of the holiday holy grail; bags full of fresh lychees and macadamia nuts. The dogs hunted for crabs and we sought the elusive miniature white cowrie called an ‘Angel's tear'. It meant that holidays were bums up and pens down. We travelled on the open back of the family van, wind swept and completely unsafe. We bounced along the dirt roads and competed to see who could make their hardboiled sweets last longest. We bought tacky coral jewellery, visited crocodile farms and exotic aviaries - none of which had a café or play area. We forgot what shoes were. It meant a daily marathon across the sand to the nearest patch of shade by the sea. And the sea was ROUGH and there were sharks. Venturing out with our father was great fun until we got dumped by that wave no one saw! Nothing the quiet tidal pool with its nibbling schools of fish couldn't cure. The matriarchal declaration of retreat would be sounded and it would be time to get an ice cream. We'd do it all again the next day.

My mother, who was raised in Kenya, vowed never to return and risk spoiling the memories she has of a unique childhood. I haven't been back to the little cove in South Africa. It may no longer have its rich offering of intact shells and tide bleached driftwood. No doubt it will have changed beyond recognition but the white sand will be as baking hot as ever. Homes, holidays, family dogs and body shapes have changed too, but I still have my crystal clear memories and a tiny jar of shells.

Written for Winter 2008 issue by Kerry Ingham