I chewed my fingernails—a bad habit. Instead, I should have focussed on the beach cricket game in front of me. I failed to cup my hands and catch a skied ball smashed high in my direction.
Cries of 'Awh' from a distance as I dropped the tennis ball.
I had been distracted before the ball came my way; a pretty girl caught my eye. I recall a Saturday morning in the summer of January 1974.
Jesus! I hated Sunday school picnics held on Saturdays.
No, I didn't hate Jesus, but I felt increasingly indifferent towards him.
I was glad this day shaped as my last church picnic ever! I cast a slight, slim shadow across the sand, aged seventeen.
No beach hunk, as I wore my old dark swimming trunks minus a tan. My ego thought my shoulder-length hair — stated cool. Pimples were not cool, and the couple on my forehead lay covered by hair dangling close to my eyes.
I recollect the beach. Kids ventured north, south, and out to sea with a smattering of supervising adults. Most attended from my parish and the neighbouring one. The adult supervision comprised church elders, presided over by the formidable Parson Dean.
Sand dominated. Well, it was a beach, but wet sand as it dried and powdered caked as gritty grains. Sand stuck to wet bathers, itched between toes, and annoyingly tried to invade my crotch. Besides sand in the wrong places, it shaped a great day weather-wise.
The bay exuded calm, the sea a beguiling greenish-blue as gentle waves broke through its surface. I noticed a cluster of surfers farther down the beach. At a distance, they looked like dots in their dark wetsuits. Josh's mate Max could have been among them.
Behind me, rolled the dunes covered with sparse tussocks, wiry, coarse and light green to straw dried in colour. Besides the tussock clusters and the slight swelling surf, the whole beach swarmed with kids.
Odd, strewn wet socks and discarded tops littered the beach. Eye-catching bright or gaudy towels lay spread or crumpled along the shore. A sandal wedged alone stuck forlornly in a dune and aged bleached driftwood jutted in clumps at the high tide mark. A broken green plastic bucket lay strewn, once used for making sandcastles.
And scattered like flecks of sea salt on a caramel slice, beach shells glistened on the sand. Most shells were fragments, many exposed jagged edges, whilst the select few unblemished oval limpets and spiralled whelks displayed a charm drawing my eye to nature.
Kids aged six to their late teens dominated the beach. A group swam in unison like a pod of dolphins. Boys, myself included, clustered around a game of beach cricket. Teenage girls stood in circles, I suppose, gossiping! Younger kids built sandcastles under supervising eyes. Bodies tanned or sun-peeled.
The game of beach cricket, where I dropped the catch, was organised by a church elder who brought together combined parish lads. I stood as an outfielder, feigning my participation. My younger brother James enjoyed swimming; he played tag in the water. My elder sister Mary relaxed far off, chatting alongside friends as they supervised littlies in a sand castle-making competition.
I stood on the extreme fringe of the cricket frivolity, disengaged from the action until a colossal hit came in my direction. My eyes instead were locked onto the dark raven hair of a girl in a group farther along the beach.
Shouts of 'Catch It!' jarringly reached my ears.
The whizzing flight of the white ball mesmerised me as my eyes tracked it arcing high to meet the sun. I raised and spread my hands too slowly and launched a last-ditch desperate clumsy clutch. The ball zipped directly at my chest, hitting my thumb and popped up, then dived abruptly between my grasping, sprawled fingers, plopping on the sand in front of my big toe.
I stared at my hands dumbfounded as the closer fielders' 'Awh's' of disappointment reached my ears.
I knelt and rolled the tennis ball underarm back to the distant wicketkeeper. The ball bounced, bumped across the sand, and deviated to the bowler's end. Before my head sank, I saw shakes of disbelief before my embarrassment was forgotten as the next ball was bowled.
The catch eluded me; as the game continued, I stayed determined not to miss the raven-haired girl who caught my eye. I was drawn by an elusive quality, more than her hair and light summer tan. However, her eyes lured me immediately. They changed colour as her head moved gently in conversation.
They shaded coppery within a shadow as she listened to her left. I thought russet, as side-on she spoke across her friendship circle. Turning to listen to the immediate right, she squinted, and as she adjusted to the summer light, the glint of the sun added a golden hue.
They shone amber! Not brown or hazel, stunning amber!
Her straight hair had a raven gloss and fell over her shoulders as smooth as satin curtains.
She's new, maybe, the adjoining parish.
I knew the familiar faces at these annual picnics as I had attended them since I was a little tyke.
The raven-haired girl chatted in a group standing near the crates of fruit brought in for lunch: apples, oranges and giant watermelons.
Forget the cricket — move in her direction.
Shyness hit me; I craved Josh's presence to walk over with me and join their circle. I didn't know how to approach a girl by myself. Then I wished Coral was here. I could have sounded out a genuine compliment to say!
The amber-eyed girl wore a one-piece, bottle-green bathing suit. Her bathers sported the prettiest of frilly, ruffled folds on its front. They crisscrossed her chest and stomach. She appeared connected and confident in her girl group. Her eyes drew others to whatever she discussed.
I remembered Josh's action when he saw a good-looking girl in Coral's absence. He shaped his hands through the air in an hourglass figure. This wasn't appropriate at the beach, let alone a Sunday school picnic! I didn't want a clip around the ears from a church elder!
Two of the raven-haired girl's friends moved off towards the sandcastle building. I wished the other two were in the water or anywhere else. Unexpectedly, with a wave, they headed towards the nearest gap in the dunes.
The girl I wanted to be beside suddenly stood by herself and looked far over the bay to the horizon's vanishing point. Next, she watched the cricket game, shielding her eyes from the sun. Her eyes followed the pitch where the action unfurled, fast bowling and hectic running between the wickets.
I pined; look in my direction!
My toes dug shallow grooves in the warm sand.
She had no reason to glance into the outfield where I propped like unwanted bleached driftwood. Nervous, I chewed the edges of my nails. The desire to approach her heaved in my chest; I was determined to narrow the gap between us. I abandoned the cricket match I never really started.
I forced movement into my wobbly legs and advanced toward her one step at a time. My riveted concentration on her nubile contours fated inattention to where I trod, and I stubbed my toe and stumbled over half-buried driftwood.
My stagger and clumsy arm flail caught her peripheral vision. She swung her head to see me hobble. Her fetching eyes enlarged under her raised eyebrows, followed by her hips pivoting in my direction. The frills on her green bathers crimped and ruched her body in all the right places.
As our eyes met, I held my gaze, pinpoint direct, in awe of her aura as I sensed the tangible of mutual liking held. I intuited in her eyes the energy of a waterfall. She preened — the subtlest pluck of the elastic in her fluted rippled bathers— at her shoulder.
I stared instead of speaking, creating a stalemate two metres apart.
Neither of us forged a step towards the other.
Talk! — My mind screeched at me.
Yes, talk to her, I fretted; my stomach churned.
I truly blanked on what to say!
I broke my stare of wonder as it verged on an ogle by dropping my eyes. At my feet lay the shapeliest of shells: a petite pink cowrie. In a downward sweep, I scooped it, wrapping it in my fist, feeling its convex spirals, fine grooves and shine. Two of my fingers slid to the concave hollow of sculptured nature.
As I rose, the amber-eyed girl no longer framed my vision. I focused on a harried beach scouting glance and caught the speed of her legs as her feet flicked loose sand as she veered towards the sea. I stood on the warm sand as her direction took her away. I watched the raven-haired girl's feet splash into the shallow water.
Was she avoiding me?
Her dark hair flew across her shoulder as her eyes darted to check my position. They didn't reveal her reaction to my stationary stance. Her movement slowed because of the incoming wavelets as she waded waist-deep into the bay. Using her toes to push beneath the water, her arms extended above her head, and she dived into the waves in a fluid motion.
My feet inched through the sand towards the bay.
Stop, I counselled, you stared, and she swam away.
Standing on the beach, I followed her high freestyle strokes through the water, her head bobbing between the waves. In my fast-beating heart, some yearning compelled me to go after her. I bounded down the beach and splashed into the cool salt spray.
Suddenly, I swam out towards her. I knew faster strokes but preferred to keep my head above the water using a sidestroke. I learned proper swimming techniques after I nearly drowned as a cub scout. I swam faster as I crested crumbling waves towards a mane of raven hair, trying to recapture the sharing of her eyes on the beach — before I gawked.
My thoughts surged and scattered, typical of a teenager, as I pushed on without innate direction as she trod water. Yet she guided me through the ocean. Her head bobbed up and down. A movement to keep above the swell or perhaps a slight shaking of her head insisting I keep my distance!
She swayed at the wave's peak, and I lurched in the trough, trying to keep my head up. I meant to catch her as I wished to give her the shell I found in the sand. My heavy stroke into the trough pushed me into her.
We were caught in the next swell, becoming a flurry and a tangle of submerged limbs. Each without bearings until our heads shot above the wave, as close as a hand clasping a shell. I watched the water stream off her face. Her eyes widened, framed by her gorgeous charcoal brows.
"You bugger!" she spluttered, spitting a trickle of water from her mouth.
She gathered in a sidestroke and zipped away with a wide scissor kick. Quick freestyle strokes commenced as she extended her legs, kicking hard, splashing water as her feet chopped a crest.
I remained treading water where she had been. I spat the ocean's brine, which tasted like tears inside my mouth. I delved into her amber eyes right before she left. Her sweeping arms cut through the sea, and at a few metres distance, she floated on her back. Her hands lay across her stomach like she cradled something special.
Alone, I dog paddled, surrounded by quiet, except for the swell that lapped my neck: puck, puck.
Then, a voice routed and erased the tranquil. A chilling, booming loudness rolled across the water from the beach. I registered Parson Dean's jarring wrath. My name, I heard it twice.
"Luke, Luke; in immediately!" he sternly yelled.