Birchington Bays

It was a glorious day when I walked the dog this morning. Brilliant sun low in the sky, a few wispy clouds on the horizon, and a gentle breeze. It was high tide and the sea was a rippling lake. It was warm too, and I was looking forward to reaching the shadier parts of the sea wall.

As Santi entered the tidal pool at Minnis Bay to retrieve her ball for the first time today, a young boy cycled past above us on the sea wall. I caught his eye, but he quickly looked away, smiling a little at Santi as he rode off. He reminded me of myself as a 12-year-old boy. We had just moved down from London then, in 1967, and I had a few days off before I was to start at my new school the following Monday. That was a pivotal time in my life, as my school experience was miserable for the next couple of years. I wondered why the boy on the bike wasn’t at school.

After a few more ball retrievals, Santi and I climbed back up to the sea wall and headed east. As we rounded into Grenham Bay, I could see the boy standing stock still, straddling his bike, looking out to sea. There he remained for the few minutes it took us to reach him.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Alright?” he mumbled, looking down to the ground.

I stopped walking. “Why aren’t you at school?”

“I don’t have school today.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m changing schools. I was getting bullied so they’re sending me to a new school.”

“Which school were you at?”

“King Ethelbert. I’m moving to Charles Dickens.” He was looking at me now, but I couldn’t read anything in his expression.

There was a pause as I wondered what, if anything, to say next. “It’s awful being bullied. I was bullied terribly when I was at school. How old are you?”

“12.”

“That’s how old I was when the bullying started. Are your parents, er …”

“My nan and my granddad.”

“You live with your grandparents?”

“Yes.”

“Are they … nice?”

“Yes. Nan told me to go out and get some fresh air.”

“That’s a good idea. Things will get better.”

“Thanks.”

“Ok. Enjoy the fresh air. See ya.”

“Bye.”

I wanted to stay and chat some more, but a twelve-year-old boy should not be talking to a sixty-four-year-old stranger, should he? So Santi and I walked on. He was still standing motionless, staring out to sea, as we rounded the cliff into Beresford Gap.

As we passed the boat ramp at Beresford Gap, I spotted what appeared to be a seal swimming westward, no more than a ball throw from us. Just as I saw clearly that it was a seal, it went under. I scanned the sea for a minute or two, wondering how long a seal can remain submerged, and then I spotted it again, way off to our left, leaving Beresford Gap, heading for Grenham Bay.

I hope the boy saw the seal.