The Family Beach Day

A day of sunshine, chaos, and one quiet breath meets a storm of family mayhem.

The blistering air made our bodies sticky with the looming threat of BO if we did not layer on the deodorant, sit still, and try not to get soaking wet from sweat. The fans droned endlessly in a futile effort to cool us down. The children’s voices were unusually rangy and grumpy. Everyone sounded irritable, and the poor kids were too hot to do anything energetic, so they sat still, too.

I was miserable. Their irritable voices were driving me crazy, and I just wanted five minutes of silence. No, “Mom, can we go get ice cream? Mom, why is it so hot? Mom, can we go to Wonderland? Mom, he pushed me. Mom, he pushed me first. Mom! Are you even listening?”

Five minutes.

Just five little minutes of quiet.

Cool, quiet, preferably.

With ice cream.

And a fan all to myself.

“MOM! Are you listening to me?”

So much for my daydreaming of five minutes that had lasted five milliseconds.

My husband and I tossed around ideas, then decided to pack up the kids, the grandparents, lunch, dinner, snacks, clothes for them to wear on the way there, beach clothes to wear when we were there, clothes to change into when they came out of the water, warm clothes in case it got cold, blankets in case they fell asleep in the car on the way home, and extra everything for the baby, who was only seven months old.

Getting ready was so exhausting that any sane person would have called it quits at that point.

But no, not me.

Super Mom and Super Dad were going to give the kids a great day. A full beach day after finishing the chaotic packing.

We started off with the best of intentions. All our energy went into creating an imagined happy, blissful time with our children where nothing would go wrong, we would laugh all day, and we would build happy memories for a happy future where we would happily remember the happy memories and laugh at all the mishaps later, because laughing at mishaps later was always the funnest part.

This was going to be one of those mishap days.

Our planned adventure was a trip to Wasaga Beach, which was about an hour and a half away from home.

We had a huge green Astro van that fit all of us, four kids and four adults, quite neatly and left lots of room for the many bags holding the many layers of clothes, the many more just-in-case layers of clothes, the just-in-case blankets, and the just-in-case extra food. It was made for those of us who can be a little overly cautious with making sure we have “enough” before we can leave the front door.

Yaya and Papou were happy about coming along. Although a little overbearing, a little overcautious, and a little overwhelming at times, the thing they were most of all was loving. They adored their grandchildren to no end and were a great help most of the time.

After an hour of trying to find parking once we arrived, we finally found a perfect spot at the beach. We had brought sun umbrellas, huge blankets, towels, more umbrellas, more towels, seats, more seats, pails, more pails, shovels, more shovels, and of course, my little one was still a baby, so we had all the baby things there as well

The children ran to the shoreline as soon as we got there to cool down. The sound of their squealing voices filled me with delight. My husband walked up to the shore where the calm waves whispered a hushed lap-lapping, and the slight breeze was just enough to cut through the sweltering sun.

It was a perfect summer day in the most beautiful place to spend it.

It was going to be a wonderful, beautiful day.

I made sandcastles with the kids, and after we ate, my husband brought the three older ones to the water with a blow-up sleeping bed, which we called the “raft.” They still had that innocent joy in them, high voices chattering as they were so excited to do everything at once. They talked over each other, each telling me to look at what they had done, what they were doing, what they wanted to do next, and asking when they could go deeper into the water.

Then I had one of those moments.

They were all playing in the sand, the baby was sleeping, my husband and in-laws were somehow occupied, and something magical happened.

As if the world had hushed around me, suddenly it was just me, the steady, strong-sounding lapping of the lake, the gentle breeze playing with my unruly hair, the sun on my cheeks like a loving kiss, and the sand in my toes somehow bringing me back to my own childhood.

It was a minute. Maybe two. Not really even that, but it reset all the busyness and the voices asking, pulling, and directing me in ten directions. For that moment, I had absolute calm. I had peace that was beautiful and left me smiling. I thanked God, because only God could give such a loving moment.

Then I was interrupted by one of the many family members who always needed me for something.

But the moment etched itself into my memory.

My husband always had the best of intentions with the kids and would go to extremes, planning details to make things fun for them. Sometimes it was a bit too much for my conservative “mom” hat, but usually the kids had a great time with him. I had learned to trust the process and immediately push back the part of me that wanted to step up, put the conductor’s hat on, and direct every action, because that always became ugly.

That day, he decided he was going to bring them all out on the raft.

The thing about Wasaga Beach is that it has an unusually long shallowness that allows you to go out very, very far without the water getting very deep. So I wasn’t too worried when they got quite a bit away. I knew my husband was safety-conscious, but I kept my eye on them just in case he needed me for something. My radar was a little activated because they were too far for me to help quickly if they needed help, but I kept watching. Not worried exactly. Just that always-aware-but-trying-not-to-worry self.

Then something caught my eye.

I realized that my eldest daughter had decided to come back to shore and had moved away from the little safety net of the four of them tightly together. Right away, I felt that wave of “hurry and make sure everything works out” feeling that I think only moms can get.

I jumped up and headed toward the shoreline in case she needed me. I saw my husband looking at her, talking to her, looking back at the boys, then looking at her again. Then he lunged forward, maybe two feet and grabbed her.

She flung her arms around him in relief from the terror she had felt in what she thought was deeper water.

But to give her security and pull her back, he had to let go of the raft.

Then that little raft holding my little boys was captured by some random breeze or unexpected current and quickly slipped out of his reach as it floated away from him.

It was like watching a bad movie when you desperately want another ending.

No control of the raft.

His daughter in his hands.

Two little boys quickly moving toward the large, deeper part of Georgian Bay.

I watched it all from way too far away.

My heart and breath completely stopped for a moment as I stared incredulously at what was happening. There was no way he could catch up to them. There was no way my daughter was going to let go of him.

There he stood, holding my daughter.

And there were my two little boys, quickly swept away, smaller in my vision second by second, on a little blow-up bed in the middle of a great big bay.

Terror seized me, and at first I ran toward them, trying to get to my daughter so he could swim back to the boys, but the raft was already way too far.

When my daughter finally came to shore, she was alone because once she felt safe, her dad had headed back toward where the boys were, although it was futile. She told me she had decided she wanted to go back to shore.

She was crying from guilt, and the words tumbled out of her mouth. She had suddenly jumped off the raft, wanting to head back, but instead of shallow water hitting her feet, the water happened to be in a deeper dip.

Her feet did not hit the sand.

She panicked and screamed for her dad to get her.

That is what I had seen. Now there was terror in her eyes and guilt that she was the cause of her brothers being “lost at sea.”

I grabbed her, and we sprinted for several minutes to get to the nearest pay phone to call security services. They deployed a boat right away.

By the time we ran back, I was heaving with the out-of-breath feeling that came from both running as fast as possible and sheer terror rising up inside me.

The breeze, the sun, the shore, and all the people seemed to stop before me and fizzle away. All I could see were the two tiny little bodies of my sons, one in blue bathing shorts and the other in red, so far away that their little heads, one bright blond and the other dark black, were the size of peas.

They had become only a speck out on the huge body of water of Georgian Bay, and I was sick with terror.

The brutal reality of what this could potentially become hit me hard. I did not want to lose my composure. I think well under pressure and naturally step up to take over.

But this was different.

I was helpless to actually do anything useful.

All I could do was pray and pray and pray and pray.

I pivoted on my husband and lashed out at him. I was so angry with him. How could he have been so reckless to go so far with them?

I turned back to the lake, realizing that screaming at him only made me feel worse. Also, deep inside me, I knew he had done the best he could in the moment. I started to imagine how helpless he must have felt. How guilty he must have felt.

In the meantime, the Greek in-laws were nonstop barraging him with orders, questions, accusations, prayers, and shame.

I felt so bad for him.

I knew he was terrified the same way I was.

We saw a boat heading to shore. Several had passed by, and we had asked them to look for our boys, but no one had come. The security boat was nowhere to be seen.

Then a boat went beyond where the others had kept away.

Closer.

Closer.

Then, just over the side rim of the boat, I saw two little heads, one bright blond and the other dark black.

Oh my God.

Could it be them?

Oh God, please let it be them. Please let it be them.

Then I saw their faces as the boat hummed its way forward.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch.

Oh my God.

Their beautiful little faces were staring at me. One with tears, and the other all excited for the adventure he had been on.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch.

The boat stopped.

My older son jumped into my arms, and his arms grabbed so tight I did not think I could breathe. But it didn’t matter, because all I could do was cry tears of relief and thanks to God that they were okay.

The younger one jumped into my husband’s arms and, in an excited nonstop tumble of words, told every detail of the drift, the rescue, the inside of the boat, the nice men, and finally getting back.

He had had the adventure of a lifetime.

They were back.

Thank you, God.

I will never forget the look on the face of the kind man who handed me back our children. If I think of it, I could cry. He was humble, proud to help, happy and thankful all at once. I felt him as we locked eyes for a moment.

As my husband and I breathed a unified sigh of gratitude and relief, we had an unexpected Act II.

With the children safely in our arms, finally calming down and ready to do a safer adventure, such as who buries who in the sand, Papou wandered off.

A couple of minutes later, like watching a slow-motion dark comedy, this little man came galloping toward us with a long piece of driftwood and began to chase the boys all over the place.

He was shouting in Greek at the top of his lungs, demanding to know why they had not stayed with their dad, why they had gone so far, why they had caused so much trouble.

I was shocked.

The boys were shocked, too, but it only took two seconds to register: run or possibly be on the receiving end of an unfriendly piece of driftwood.

Yaya was shouting at him.

“Calm down! You are making a scene! Everyone is looking at us! Why are you doing this?”

At the top of her lungs.

Papou alternated between shouting at her and chasing the boys with the driftwood raised over his head and more speed than any seventy-year-old man should ever have had.

Enter husband.

“Dad! Stop shouting!”

As he shouted with his very loud, bellowing voice.

“Mom, go sit down! Dad, I swear, you are making us embarrassed. GO SIT DOWN!”

Papou added shouting at his son onto shouting at the boys and shouting at his wife. His wife added shouting at my husband while shouting at her husband. The boys were shouting just to shout as they pulled a Road Runner speed test to outlast Papou.

Then my daughter, God bless her, came and put her hand on my arm.

“Mommy… everyone is looking at us.”

Everyone?

Oh my God.

Everyone.

Everyone who had gathered to witness the safety of the boys, everyone who had stood beside us praying with us, hoping with us, waiting with us, was lined up like soldiers with their eyes popping open in shock and their jaws dropped in utter disbelief at this ridiculously absurd scene unfolding before them.

It took a while before Papou ran out of breath, before Yaya stopped shouting at him, before my husband stopped yelling at them, before the boys stopped shouting in the sheer drama of the moment, and before the crowd stopped being entertained.

My daughter and I started howling.

The baby was crying.

And I bet all of those praying, hoping, shocked, fascinated people still think about it to this day…

and can’t help but smile.

Author’s Note:
Every family has “that” story, the one that starts with panic, survives by grace, and somehow becomes hilarious years later. This was ours. I wrote it to remember the chaos, the comedy, and the tiny breath of calm that stayed with me long after the beach day ended.