Fears, undoubtedly we all have them. I don't know anyone who doesn't possess one. The one rare exception is Miley Cyrus but that gurl has a lifetime's worth of STDs advancing in her direction to dread. Some folk shudder in concern over the dark, some horror strange things like puppets or others curl up into a foetal position in despair at the thought of a Gail Platt apparition. Whatever your apprehension is it's all relatively the same and often we have to face it on a sometimes regular basis. Readers, you may relax I'm not going to commence rhyming off a composed list of extraordinary phobias for ye as that would require time and effort. Alternatively I shall babble and rant on about my own personal fear, the beach. Refrain from all that judgemental smirking and allow me explain myself through the medium of this blog-post.
Granted my fear is a bizarre one especially considering I revel in water, swimming and all related aquatics. Typically a terror derives from a bad childhood experience and mine my disciples is no different. Little twelve year old Jeb was out exploring in the sensuous land of the Spanish with the clan. We all prearranged one morning to jaunt down to the beach, regular Paddy man set up.
Six Casper the friend ghosts stripped down all exposed (not an Aran Islands knitted jumper in sight). We had all the essentials; the aul reliable bucket and spade, heated Miwadi straight from the flask and ham (sand smeared) sandwiches. At arrival the crates of sun-cream were unloaded straight from the father's disturbing fanny pack and one by one they intended on defiling each child in factor 10,000 lotion.
Me, being the rebellious rock and roll twelve year old I was at the time discounted that whole routine and meandered head first into the sea. As the day lingered on the burning of Snow White increased dramatically (blisters and sunstroke made their debut appearances).
Six Casper the friend ghosts stripped down all exposed (not an Aran Islands knitted jumper in sight). We had all the essentials; the aul reliable bucket and spade, heated Miwadi straight from the flask and ham (sand smeared) sandwiches. At arrival the crates of sun-cream were unloaded straight from the father's disturbing fanny pack and one by one they intended on defiling each child in factor 10,000 lotion.
Me, being the rebellious rock and roll twelve year old I was at the time discounted that whole routine and meandered head first into the sea. As the day lingered on the burning of Snow White increased dramatically (blisters and sunstroke made their debut appearances).
The anguish prolonged on into more gruesome territory and the hardship progressed after a failed pursuit to cruelly splash my mother. She outwit my endeavour and returned the gesture dramatically. The process involved unintentionally smudging sand into my scalded red back, half poisoning/drowning me in salt water, it was like a scene from Jeremy Kyle. The ordeal concluded with the extra affliction of the sheer smell of the ocean, half suffocating in a mountain of loathsome seaweed and stepping barefoot in numerous dog/human dung. Each resulting in nightmares for years since.
So yes, I do still shiver at the mere concept of the beach, its smell does construct mini panic attacks and I religiously refuse salt at the table ever since. I know that this is a completely irrational fear that realistically I should have conquered by now as it has been years but considering it's a fear I don't face on a daily basis it is not a priority, well until Sharknado applies to real life.
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| Unfortunately folks this is the only Patrick you shall be seeing in the deep under-waters of the ocean. |
Great blog! I will definitely visit it again!
ReplyDeleteGlad you enjoyed the post and thanks a million for the comment, I appreciate all feedback :)
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