The Pillow Beach
Essay and photography by Amy Stopher
Eighty percent of my childhood family holidays were exactly the same. We’d pile into the 1985 Tarago and drive for an hour until the first of us shouted, “I see the trees,” shortly followed by “I see the sea.” Our Gran owned a beach shack where we’d spend a week every school holidays. Tall gums lined the only road in and out, and we’d crane our necks on the approach to be the first to spot the sign we were almost there.
The house was simple, no frills, and so we passed the time riding our bikes on the road, playing at the local playground, scavenging change from our uncle for a deli ice cream, and, at the beach. Just a five minute walk down the road. We’d go early in the morning for a swim with our Gran. She liked the beach best when the water was perfectly still. She’d jog on the spot, we’d splash about, and practice our breast stroke. We’d go late in the evening when the men were fishing, hopping down the beach checking out every bucket. Who had fish today? We spent endless afternoons learning to body surf. Getting dumped. Fishing sand out of our bathers. Getting back up and going again. Floating on our backs up and over waves without even a passing thought of sharks. Back at the beach shack, we’d all hose off in the backyard. My love for the beach was born on these holidays.
Once a year we’d break the pattern to stay with our friends, who lived in Albany. We’d patter down the road to their beach morning and night, whatever the weather. The sand so white it squeaked beneath our feet. We scrambled over rocks and collected shells. The water was calm, but icy cold. We explored beaches far and wide on those holidays, but our favourite was always their beach. Their house overlooked their beach. We’d watch the sea as we ate our breakfast on the balcony and as the Dads messed around on guitars in the evening. From time to time all the kids would get up at the crack of dawn to watch the sunrise, dragging our sleeping bags to the lounge room floor. The bay they lived in faced east, and so we enjoyed the novelty of the sun rising over the ocean.
Our home was also near the beach, but I don’t remember going much. I’m not sure whether we didn’t go, or if holidays memories are just more sticky. That beach was expansive, with sand stretching to the horizon, and turquoise blue water, clear enough to see your toes. It was a snake-y beach, not that it worried us. I don’t remember swimming much at that beach, but we did walk on the path weaving through the dunes, mostly far enough from the road to obscure the noise of passing cars. In my late teens I would have walked that path hundreds of times. In my mid-20s I rented a house not far from my childhood beach and I walked or ran along that path basically every day. I didn’t appreciate the luxury of it at the time.
The home I live in now is near enough to the beach. It’s too far to walk (though I have) but close enough to sneak in a swim before work, or ride my bike on the weekend. My beach is kind of the opposite of my childhood beach, closed in rather than stretching expanses of sand. Sandbags stacked up, like pillows, to stop the road falling into the sea, bookended by rocky outcrops. It’s not really a beach for walking along the sand, although people do. There’s a regular early morning crew at the pillow beach. Trotting down the sand to the gap between the rocks, where the water is clearest. Chit chatting about the day gone and the day to come.
Some days the sea is as flat as glass. Other days it’s dumpy. Some days the swell is so big it feels like it’ll pick you up and dash you on the sand. One day friends and I jumped in together in the late afternoon, only to realise immediately it was a mistake. The waves were too big. Sucking in too much water before throwing themselves down on the sand. Two of us were out straight away. Two were in too deep and had to wait out the set. All four of us, confident swimmers, and all glad to be out of the water that day.
My favourite time at the beach is early in the morning. Before the sun is high in the sky. Before the crowds. When the sand is cold beneath your feet, and there’s no need for suncream. Some mornings I wake up and have an almost desperate urge to be in the ocean. To wash away the morning sleepyness. To delay the start of the day, ever so briefly. I don’t tend to hang around for long. A quick dip in and out of the water. A few moments taking it all in, before I get on with the day. Sometimes I go to the beach and I decide I don’t want to swim after all. Even that is a pleasure, and a privilege. Being close enough to decide, not today.
I can’t put my finger on it, my love for the beach. It’s something to do with the fresh wind and the cool water. It’s something to do with the soundscape, the white noise of crashing waves, and feeling the sand beneath your toes. It’s something to do with the beauty of stretching blue skies.
It’s something to do with finding myself appropriately small, standing in front of the sea floating out to the horizon, beneath the sky stretched out in between. It’s remembering the one who made the sea, and everything in it is the same one who made, and knows and loves me.
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Amy Stopher—Regular Contributor
Amy grew up by the beach, the third of four sisters, and first learned the gospel from her parents. She taught high school students Politics and English, before studying Theology at Trinity Theological College in Perth, WA. Now Amy serves on the ministry team at Providence City, and delights in seeing women grow in their confidence to teach God’s word. Amy loves gardening, cooking for people and eating with them, and early mornings at the beach. She lives with her dog, Billie. She processes her thoughts on ministry, food, and gardening on Substack.