The boy who lost his bathers

Child abuse can come in many forms, sometimes as a deliberate act and sometimes out of ignorance and love, unfortunately in my case the latter was true and too much love had almost been responsible for the demise of my young life. But how can too much love be detrimental, can you kill someone with kindness? My mother doted on me her youngest child and some would say she spoiled me, unlike my older sibling who was now into his late teens I was unplanned I’d just turned 10 and was seen as my parents little miracle, the apple of my mothers eye, an unexpected gift from the Gods she would tell everyone. There is 8 years between myself and my older sibling who has already left home to house-share with his fellow Uni student friends. So she wrapped me up in cotton wool, doted on me and tried to protect her little ‘soldier’ from the dangers of life. She would still be wiping my backside for me if she could, she still tries to clean behind my ears and if she could would brush my teeth for me every morning, nothing was too much trouble for her miracle child. She would knit jumpers for me, make sure I had all the up to date designer trainers, branded tops and as every ten year old child needs the latest haircut, to say I was spoilt would be an understatement I was surely teetering on the edge of child abuse and was definitely in danger of being killed with kindness. To add further strain on my forth coming demise my mother had decided as a surprise to knit a pair of personalised bathing trunks for me for my upcoming school trip to a remote beach in North Wales. Now the Welsh coast can be rather chilly in October and to describe it as a beach is a little confusing as the word beach conjures up visions of long white sandy expanse and the so called beach the school was intending to visit was actually a pebble beach, there was no sand just a grass verge were you could set up and have a picnic with space to put some chairs and place your towels which then falls away and leads on to 15 yards of pebbles which had to be crossed before merging into the Irish sea. Our teachers set up some wind breaks along the grassy verge which gave the students protection from the elements as well as privacy to change into our bathers before attempting the ordeal of traversing the rocky mine field. My newly knitted bathers looked spectacular, deep burgundy with two white stripes that ran vertically down the sides and were kept up by a brilliant black, red and yellow snake belt. I was ecstatic about my bathers they were warm but best of all they were adorned with the most exquisite multi-coloured snake belt, my mum had done me proud. The school group had now all changed into their bathers and one by one gingerly left the safety of the grass verge and began crawling over the pebbles oohing and grimacing as we attempted to reach the waters edge with the words of encouragement penetrating the wind coming from the teachers who by now were well and truly wrapped up in their deckchairs offering advice ‘get in you wimps the waters not cold’ Well, I learnt a big lesson that day in fact I learnt three big lessons, one that my teachers don’t always tell the truth, secondly woollen trunks don’t work in water and thirdly the Irish sea isn’t cold, it’s bloody freezing. Standing waist high in the icy waters my quivering lips began turning blue while it took all of my concentration to keep my bathing trunks from completely disappearing into the depths of Davy Jones locker. It soon dawned on me that the bathers my mother had knitted for me were not up to the job of affective and efficient swimwear, sure while on dry land they looked amazingly smart especially with the snake belt accessory but they had now proven to be as big a danger as the iceberg was to the Titanic. Another lesson learnt wool apparently retains and soaks up water like a sponge and as I struggled to turn around and find the safety of the pebbles I felt himself being dragged deeper into the freezing water and unable to take another step as the woollen trunks became like a knitted anchor strapped to my waist. There could only be one answer to my problem I had to abandon ship or to be more precise drop and kick off the woollen menace that clawed at my torso if I was ever going to make it back to the safety of the pebbles, after all nakedness no matter how embarrassing was a better alternative to drowning. As I tried to escape from the icy depths all thoughts of looking cool and imitating Daniel Craig emerging from the ocean in Casino Royale had diminished and had now been replaced by the sad image of myself with blue lips, shivering as I felt my testicles retreating so far into my naked body I was sure I had two lumps protruding from my neck. The immediate danger of drowning had now subsided as I stumbled my way towards the stoney shoreline minus my woollen anchor, but alas further peril awaited upon reaching the water’s edge for as I stood there as naked as the day I was born the little matter of crossing 15 yards of sharp pebbles needed to be traversed before the safety of the grass verge and a warm dry towel could be reached and freedom from danger truly achieved. As difficult as it was I managed to cross that rocky outreach while clinging on to what was left of my manhood and avoiding complete naked embarrassment. As I struggled to dress with numbed digits and the howls of laughter ringing in my ears I finally began to thaw out and my blue lips thankfully returned to a more healthy shade of pink and the feeling was now slowly returning to my fingers and toes. The imaginary lumps in my throat had returned to their normal position and the giggles from my peers and sadly this included my teachers began to subside, I finally left that North Wales coast along with my school group a slightly embarrassed but wiser young man minus one pair of lovingly knitted bathers and a rather smart snake belt.