That Sinking Feeling

“Bloody Poms!” As we drive unsteadily away from the beach, that is exactly what I imagine the two large Australians must be saying to each other. Followed, I expect, by much laughter, their rotund beer bellies shaking with mirth. Flash back an hour and we’re lugging our chairs, esky and bags laden with towels and books and the essential first aid kit (beaches are prime biting/stinging/chomping areas –anything could happen both in sea and on land) up the beach and over the sand dunes to where we left the car. I had wanted to stay a bit longer to explore the rock pools that were gradually being formed by the receding tide but The Husband insisted we leave to get back to play some tennis. I was still talking about the fascinating marine life we could have discovered when we were in the car reversing but The Husband wasn’t listening to me – he looked distracted, concerned, slightly panicky. “I need to concentrate,” he said, “so will you please be quiet for a moment?” From the tone of his voice, I knew it wasn’t just a tactic to get me to stop talking for the sake of it. He was worried. And that was when I realised that the car was juddering forwards as he attempted to manoeuvre it. Then it wasn’t juddering. It wasn’t doing anything except making a screeching noise. “We’re stuck,” he said. “Oh God, we’re stuck!”


We got out of the car to assess the situation and discovered that we were indeed stuck in the sand. We had parked there twice before without a problem but it appeared that the recent rain had softened the sand, causing the car to sink into it and lose traction (or that’s what the aforementioned large Aussies said anyway). There followed forty five minutes of a series of failed attempts to get the car out of the soggy sand. The Husband dug out the sand around the wheels, he placed rocks behind them (which I hauled across the dunes like Xena, Warrior Princess... OK, more like an ungainly Neolithic cavewoman, unattractively bent double with swinging arms but Xena is a better image), he got into position to push the car as I attempted to drive it. Naturally, loud arguments were had. And The Husband got a face full of sand. It was not a pretty scene. Eventually, I persuaded him that he had to swallow his man-pride and ask for help. I was not going to be stranded on a beach all night with no sleeping bag and just a cereal bar to keep my hunger at bay. Head bowed low in shame, he trekked across to where we could see a couple of trucks in the distance. Ten minutes later, one of the large Aussies roared up to me on a quad bike, jumped down, belly wobbling like jelly, and assessed the situation. He looked around the car, under the car and in the car, before peering at me through thick, wiry eyebrows. “This isn’t bogged down, it’s just a bit stuck,” he said, through a Father Christmas beard, “we’ll have it out no problem. Now, does it have low range?” I looked at him with clear confusion and confessed that I had no idea what low range was. After that, he didn’t ask me any questions. In fact, he didn’t even look at me. It was as if I wasn’t there. I mean, fancy not knowing what low range is. I expect I’ll be forever known as ‘that Pommy Sheila who didn’t know what low range was’.

Minutes later, The Husband appeared over the crest of a dune in a monster 4WD. He was sat next an identical large Aussie, also with Father Christmas beard and crazy caterpillar eyebrows. The Aussies knew what they were doing – they had probably pulled Utes out of rivers, across deserts, in from the sea through crashing waves. They looked like they had done it all, seen it all and took our little problem completely in their stride. They told The Husband what to do and he obeyed and within ten minutes they had pulled us out. We thanked them profusely and they told us not to worry, that everyone gets stuck at least once. I’m sure, though, that as we pulled away out of earshot they chuckled over our stupidity. Bloody Poms.