Summer lovin': remembering holiday romances

We were on holidays in Forster, our yearly pilgrimage from the central tablelands of NSW to the coast. We’d pack up the car, drive straight through, the parents chain smoking and listening to Charley Pride in the front, my sister and I squeezed into the back seat with the extra luggage, our pale thighs sticking to the vinyl seats, damp with sweat, taking turns to vomit in the ice cream container mum would dutifully pack; we were always both terribly car sick, and I’m sure it had nothing to do with the cigarettes, or lack of air conditioning, or the fact that the only entertainment was a good book. I still can’t read in a car to this day.

Not a terribly good way to start a holiday, it never was, but once we were close to the coast, everything was forgotten. Whoever was the first to spot the water would scream out, windows wound down to try and smell the sea air, the adventure had begun.

This year, it must have been 1979, was going to be different. I had finished primary school, I was going to be a teenager, the world was my oyster and I was excited about what the future held.

As we moved our luggage into the apartment that was going to be home for the next two weeks, we saw a group of children around the communal pool, a mix of girls and boys about our age, laughing and splashing. Thank lordy I’d have come company apart from my sister.

And then I saw him. Tall, blonde, tanned, an easy smile. I was smitten.

I was 12. And really had no idea what smitten meant. The group of kids got bigger, our tribe from Orange, their tribe from Sydney, combined in that easy summer way before kids were given technology to keep them amused.

We swam in the pool, spent hours at the beach, stayed up late playing board games, and got up early to accompany our fathers fishing.

But all the time, this golden boy and I made room for each other. We’d sit next to each other during games, I’d ride on his shoulders in pool games, our towels next to each other on the sand.

It wasn’t a conscious thing. It was just easy. With hindsight, the best romances are. Never forced, they just happen, organically.

And then one night something happened. The kids had convinced the parents, there was a tribe of us aged about 13 to five, that we could walk down to the old hall that was showing cheap movies. Us older ones promised to look after the young un, we were off to see The Muppet Movie, so it suited us all. We packed water bottles and popcorn we’d popped up in a saucepan, a bag of jubes or something, some chocolate. It was set to be a grand night.

We grabbed a few chairs, layed out some cushions and settled in as the lights dimmed. The hall was full of kids. Who knew where the parents were, drinking cold beer or sipping white wine, enjoying a night without the kids I’m sure. Everyone was safe in 1979, there were no worries at all.

Until he reached out and grabbed my hand. I remember it clearly, 40 years ago this summer. That first electrifying moment where I was sure he had been thinking about me too. To this day every time I hear Kermit sing Rainbow Connection I wonder where that boy got to.

Summers come to an end, romances come to an end, but do those moments that take you by surprise ever end? I hope not.