We haven’t always done it this way. Last year we kind of fell into the holidays, using that gap between the end of school and Christmas to prepare ourselves for the onslaught.
This year, we headed straight for the beach.
‘Let’s not pack until the last minute,’ Dave begs me, knowing my tendency to start tearing around the place muttering under my breath about there being ‘so much to do’ and how ‘nobody is doing anything!’ I reluctantly agree, and we spend the afternoon resting instead, only beginning to gather our things at 4pm. When the car is finally stuffed, jenga style, and we grab our dinner on the way, it is already past the kids’ bedtimes. They seem oblivious, Harvey requesting ‘the doggy song’ on repeat (‘Who Let the Dogs Out’). We wearily oblige. Anything to get there.
Venus Bay is an odd sort of place. Tucked away in a knobbly finger of land that points towards Inverloch, it is surrounded by sea, with towering dunes and scrublands. You would hardly know that the water beckons so closely, except for the swarms of mosquitoes and the quaint sight of cows curling up on the sand. The houses are closely set together, some crumbling and forgotten, others braced with scaffolding in anticipation of being reborn to another round of holiday makers.
Our house is hidden along a gravelly road, looking out onto a tennis court that we share with the place next door. It is almost dark. The kids tear into every room, scoping out which bedroom they wish to stake their claim upon. The place is clean, cosy and comfortable. We allow ourselves to relax a little.
‘Are you stressed at all?’ The doctor eyes me inquisitively before we leave, eyebrow arched almost as if he expects me to lie to him. I have a slew of seemingly unrelated health problems (mouth ulcers and a painfully infected stye on my eyelid) and make a last minute appointment to seek help before we go. I don’t feel as if I’m obscuring the truth. I make time for yoga and meditation every day. My to-do lists are on track. Yes, I did just write 50,000 words in the month of November while continuing to work, bake 8 batches of fudge, do the Christmas shopping, coordinate teacher gifts and merging schedules for four different educational facilities and my eldest son broke his arm last week, but I feel fine. Really. The internal monologue sounds unconvincing even to me, but I swear that I’m okay.
I spend the first two days of our holiday sleeping.
Dave feels the same, and we both sink into that blissful oblivion that a change of location offers. The kids ‘sail’ to Hawaii in the kayaks that line the tennis court and they play endless games of tiggy around the netting in the middle. Harvey lugs his scooter down the flight of stairs from the verandah and navigates his way around the grassy bumps and stumps. Gus explores and flops contentedly onto the couch. We watch a lot of family movies, read books in the afternoon sun, savour dripping icy-poles on the verandah, fans swivelling constantly overhead.
It is on the beach that I find my salvation. Every afternoon, whether 20 degrees or 40, we pull into the almost-deserted parking lot of Beach No. 5 and lug our belongings down the hill. The dull roar of the ocean calls to me and I find that I am unable to do anything except surrender to it. We are the only ones for miles and the kids shriek with delight, tempting the waves to chase them over and over again. Ivy and I build sandcastles with complicated underground tunnel systems. Harvey holds out his hand, begging us to stand by him so that he can withstand the sucking pull of the water seeking to claim him as its own. The whole family teams together to beat the tides, digging with our hands a hole that can fit all of us, erecting frantic barriers to prevent the water from entering.
It is my favourite part of every day.
When we return home it is early evening. With a simple dinner and a movie, we let the bedtimes stretch later and later with a stern warning that no one is to emerge before 8am. Dave and I play a quick game or two of Sequence before collapsing into bed ourselves.
I lure the kids into my obsession for op shopping, taking a couple on an excursion to Wonthaggi Vinnie’s one day. Eli and Ivy can hardly contain their exhilaration as they find armfuls of bargains – caps, books, jewellery, boardies, toys – and declare loudly ‘I love Vinnie’s! This place is the best!’ I smile indulgently. My work here is done. Dave takes the older boys to see the final instalment of the Star Wars saga.
Christmas seems to have receded – the ever increasing volume of tasks and to-dos, the soundtrack of upbeat carols, the lines and the bustle – now but a faint echo. I instruct myself to forget the lists, to not even think about what is coming next, but to just ‘be’.
When Gus begins to deteriorate, we feel it so keenly, having just found ourselves amidst the noise again. When he takes his last breath, surrounded by five pairs of glistening eyes, we feel the terrible new crashing of grief. He is actually gone.
That night, after we share a picnic dinner of fish and chips with Grandma and Grandpa, we return to the beach for one final time. The sun is heavy and orange, gliding down past the horizon. I sit on the sand – a huddled figure in black – tears streaming down my face, remembering. Eli has taken charge of Harvey, his strong hand now hauling his little brother upright when the waves sweep him off balance. The four play peacefully into the night. It is beautifully bittersweet.
We are a solemn bunch, car quiet for most of the trip home. We left as seven, return as six. Began as depleted and ragged versions of ourselves, re-entering a little more rested, although broken and reshaped by loss.
‘Let’s make this our tradition,’ Dave murmurs as we stretch out in the dark that night, reminiscing. ‘A week away just before Christmas.’ I wholeheartedly agree.
It was the antidote we never realised we needed.
