Shark Attack

I sat looking at the Atlantic the other day, taking in the vastness of the ocean and watching the waves wash against the beautiful pristine beach. The older children paddled in the waves and were chased up and down the beach by the incoming tide, as their sandcastles were knocked down or demolished by the builders to be rebuilt in bigger and better fashion. Youngest child tried to eat the sand.

Finally, I announced that I was going for a swim, and the boys gathered around promising to watch for sharks – it was unclear if this was for my security or in the hope of some sport – as I slipped into the chilly waters and plunged beneath the waves.

Sitting later with the boys on the edge of the level part of the beach as the waves tried to sweep us up and down as they crashed in and swept back out, I got thinking about the important questions of life.

Who would I like to see eat by a shark, and why?

I started to make a top five list, which was a bit harder than I first imagined, but I had to abandon that as the list was becoming crowded and I was trying to cheat – do the entire British National Party wrapped in bloody entrails and tied to a buoy, count as one person or not? – and I realised that the problem could be compounded by the nature of the shark.

The thoughts of a Labour Party Pathetic Shark (toothless, smugly superior) having a fight to the death with Alex Salmond (lots of eating, smugly superior), and probably resulting in the sharks being persuaded to eat themselves, faded as I had to rouse myself to return to the hotel.

Our youngest boy then demanded to go into the big pool for the first time, and with the purchase of a pair of water-wings he launched himself in and swam a breadth unaided. After almost an hour we got him out, tired and cold, but confident enough to jump in and go under water. Our hearts melted, as any parents would.