Bradt/Independent on Sunday Travel-Writing Competition 2011
The Disappearing Beach
"Oops," he says.
I laugh at my brother. We are in his car which is now perched on top of a mound of black sand.
"Ok, try again," he says, slamming the car into reverse and throwing us back down towards the tarmac road. He revs the engine and points us squarely at the goal. The car roars as we leap over the hill and onto the empty beach on the other side.
"There!" he announces triumphantly.
You can drive on certain beaches in New Zealand. We're taking one of these 'beach highways' on a stretch of the west coast from Muriwai to Kaipara Harbour, a vast natural and empty harbour surrounded by forest, sand dunes and a few 'batches' - summer homes - peering down from the hills.
"The same driving rules apply on here as on the roads," he tells me as we set off.
"Even speed limits?"
"Yeah, I think it's sixty."
I glance over at the speedometer. We're doing double that.
Fortunately, the wide beach is deserted in early autumn. To our left the Tasman Sea laps calmly at the shore. The trick is to drive near the water's edge where the sand is harder and the tyres have more grip. We tease the waves with our wheels. On our right a desert of sand dunes loom and behind those, the dark dense forest hides all manner of imaginings.
As we head north the volcanic sand fades into the familiar gold of postcard pictures. It is quiet, just the slosh of tyres and the smell of the sea. We have the freedom of the open beach. On inland roads this journey would take nearly three hours; the beach highway reduces it to forty minutes.
We reach the harbour and leave the car. From a distance it looks even more incongruous; a lonely metal blob marring the landscape. The harbour is renowned for shipwrecks. Over the centuries sandbars have lurked beneath the surface to topple unsuspecting explorers. Now they are exposed and we hop from one to another. We are kings of soft small islands. Pools have been created in the low tide and we nudge the trapped fish with our toes and irritate the flitting colours.
My brother and I are intrepid explorers again, an echo of our childhood holidays. We reminisce and exchange news from our lands half a world apart; we poke and prod around the harbour; renewing our bond. He is tanned from a summer spent outdoors. We compare arms and he sniggers at my bleached skin. His hair has been made golden by the sun; mine is as dark as an English winter.
Clouds begin to brew and move in from the west. It is not long before the first fat drops of rain fall. We retreat to the car to feast on the stash of food and drink. The rain beats out its tune on the roof.
"The tide is turning," my brother announces through his sandwich.
"Really? Already?" I peer out on the rain and grey.
"The sandbars have gone." He points and I follow his finger. There is now only water in front and, I notice, around us. Here at high tide, he tells me, the beach submerges completely.
We make our escape. As we drive I notice the beach is narrower and the waves begin to nibble at our wheels. Shallow trenches have formed and we slow down to ride over the softening sand.
"So what happens if the water cuts us off?" I ask.
"We'll have to drive as far as we can up the dune and sit it out."
"For how long?"
"About twelve hours," he says nonchalantly. "But we'll be fine." He jerks the wheel and we skid away from another encroaching wave. I'm unconvinced; there is no beer in the car for a start. It would be a long night. We cannot get trapped. The race is on.
We try to keep a constant speed. We cannot slow too much in case the car begins to sink. The tide presses in, pushing us towards soft sand on which the tyres cannot grip. More water slaps the wheels but the dunes recede, giving more space, and we outwit the water with speed.
We reach the gap in the dunes and spin around in the surrounding pools to rid the sand from the wheels. My brother takes aim at the hill.
"I want to do it!" The petulant child rises in me. We swap seats and I prepare a long run up.
"Right then, you need to..."
But I already have the pedal to the floor, flicking wet sand everywhere. I don't let up though the hill looks like a solid wall. We whoop like victorious cowboys, flying over the sand, away from the disappearing beach.
About the author – Simon Duncan
Simon's favourite way to travel is by rail and finds trains are a great way to spend time with strangers; everyone in the carriage safe in the knowledge the company can terminate naturally at a pre-determined stop. That's if the train doesn't inexplicably grind to a halt on an empty track, miles from civilisation. He has travelled by train throughout Europe, Asia and the Far East, sharing carriages with a variety of people and animals. Goats, he has found, can be troublesome companions, having blatant disregard for personal space. Chickens are surprisingly sedate but can bicker among themselves when confined to a small space among strangers' feet.
Judges' comments
'A tightly focused and vivid tale that makes heavy use of conversation to bring events up close and personal. It’s difficult to write natural-sounding speech – this is a rounded and accomplished piece of writing.'
Adrian Phillips, Publishing Director, Bradt Travel Guides
'An entertainingly spun memoir of a single afternoon on a beach in Australia, that also manages to portray the rivalries and recognitions, distances and closeness of a sibling relationship. This piece adds a lively human dimension to the travel tale.'
Jonathan Lorie, Director, Travellers' Tales