MINDLESS MUSINGS

We were staying in a caravan on the beach down at Coledale. Earlier in the day when we arrived, I had noticed what looked like a cave up one end of the beach. After a night of drinking and debauchery at a pub in Thirroul we had all returned to the caravan. Pot was on the menu at this stage, and I wasn’t particularly interested in the nauseating effects of mixing pot with massive amounts of alcohol. I left the caravan and sat on the beach watching the waves crash in the night.

Sitting there I suddenly recalled the cave I had scoped out earlier in the day. I leapt to my feet and decided I was going to go exploring caves at 3am drunk as a skunk. From nowhere Mick appeared at my side and upon hearing my mission decided to accompany me. We both headed off up the beach to where our adventure would soon begin.

We arrived at the rocky edge of the beach and followed the cliff face around to where the cave was meant to be. After a few meters we were met with a rock face that merely bent inwards a little bit and then stopped dead. No cave. No spelunking. No adventure.

We stood there disappointed for a while and then we turned to face the ocean. We were standing on solid rock, and it stretched out toward the water for about (in my hazy drunken memory) 20 meters. Right at the edge of the rocks and the ocean was a large rock that stood there like a podium.

I don’t recall us discussing anything, but we both determined to walk over to that podium rock. There was no real wave action as we walked over to the rock formation, and it all seemed quite uneventful.

Almost at the exact moment that we reached the podium the ocean decided to rip in full force. Waves began crashing all around us. I bent over and gripped the rock as hard as I could. Waves seemed to be pounding us from all directions. I was holding on to the rock; Mick was holding onto me, and we were both being pummelled by an angry ocean.

I can clearly remember calling out to Mick “hold on tight mate, we don’t want to be on the news. They’ll be saying ‘what the hell were they doing there?’ and ‘their blood alcohol was…’ “Drunken fuckwits!!!”

I don’t know how long we were stuck there, but eventually the waves backed off, and we made a mad dash for the beach. As we reached the sand, we could see a few figures walking towards us. Some of the guys had noticed us missing and had set off to find us.

I can’t remember who it was that found us, but they were looking at a couple of drowned rats. We were soaked through to the bone; still dressed in our jeans, collared shirts and leather shoes. What well-dressed corpses we could have made.

We sheepishly dragged our drenched hides back to the caravan and that is where my memory fades. I don’t recall getting changed into dry clothes or where I slept that night. My recollection drops out with Mick and I being led back to the caravan by some faceless mates.

Another notch on the belt of lucky escapes; escapes from misadventures that never should have been encountered. Drunken escapades that ended in perilous predicaments that could have been avoided with just a tiny bit of forethought; but forethought is in very short supply when you are hammered.