The Big Wave at Brighton Beach
A gentle Apple Tree Primary story about trying something new, staying safe near the sea, and discovering that brave can mean taking one small jump.
Mia saw the sea before she heard it.
The train from London had been busy and warm, with rucksacks under seats and grown-ups saying, “Mind the gap,” and Jack asking every ten minutes if they were nearly there. Mia had sat by the window with her forehead almost touching the glass, watching houses change into fields, and fields change back into houses, and then, suddenly, there it was.
A strip of blue-grey brightness, shining between the buildings.
“The sea!” cried Jack, so loudly that a man across the aisle looked up from his newspaper.
Mia pressed both hands to the window. The sea looked huge. It went on and on, much further than the playground at Apple Tree Primary, further than the park, further than any puddle she had ever jumped in.
Mum smiled. “Brighton Beach. Nearly there.”
By the time they came out of the station, the air felt different. It had salt in it, and chips, and something windy that made Mia’s hair fly into her mouth. Seagulls swooped over the rooftops, crying as if they had very important news.
Jack’s family were waiting near the steps down to the beach. Jack had a bucket in one hand and a spade in the other.
“I’m going to dig to Australia,” he said.
“You can’t dig through pebbles,” said Mia.
“I can try.”
They walked down towards the seafront together. The pier stretched out in the distance with its rides and flags, and the beach was covered in smooth, round pebbles that clicked and shifted under everyone’s shoes.
Mia liked the sound of them. Crunch, crunch, crunch. It was like walking on a giant bowl of cereal.
Dad spread out a picnic blanket. Mum put the bags in a neat pile. Jack’s dad carried a windbreak, which immediately tried to fold itself back up again.
“Steady,” said Jack’s mum, laughing as the wind tugged at it.
Mia took off her shoes and socks. The pebbles felt warm on top and cool underneath. They pressed into her feet in lumpy little ways, not soft like sand, but not unkind either.
Jack was already running towards the water.
“Come on!” he called.
Mia stood still.
The waves rolled in with a loud, foamy whoosh. They rushed up the pebbles, curled around stones, and then dragged back again with a rattling sound, as if the sea was pulling marbles into its pocket.
Whoosh.
Rattle-rattle-rattle.
Whoosh.
Mia held her bucket against her chest.
The water looked colder close up. It kept moving and moving, never staying where it was meant to stay.
Jack splashed at the edge, laughing. “It’s freezing!”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Mia called.
“It’s good freezing!”
Mia was not sure there was such a thing.
Ella had come too, with her gran and a pink sunhat that kept nearly blowing away. She waved at Mia from beside the picnic blanket.
“I’m making a pebble cake,” she said. “It has no actual cake in it.”
Mia was happy to help with pebble cake. She decorated it with shells, seaweed and one white stone that looked a bit like a tiny egg. She built a wall around it and made a little path with flat pebbles. She ate two crisps and half a banana. She watched a seagull waddle past with the bold walk of someone who owned the whole beach.
But every now and then, she looked at the sea.
Jack kept running in and out of the water, never very far, always where his dad stood close by with his trousers rolled up.
“It’s only up to my ankles!” Jack shouted.
The waves rushed around his feet. Jack jumped and squealed and laughed all at once.
Mia wanted to laugh like that.
She also wanted to stay exactly where she was.
Mum sat beside her and brushed a bit of sand from Mia’s knee, even though Brighton Beach did not have much sand at all.
“Thinking about paddling?” Mum asked.
“Maybe,” said Mia.
“That’s all right. Maybe is a perfectly good seaside word.”
Mia smiled a little.
Dad stood up and held out his hand. “Shall we go and have a look? Just to the damp pebbles. No further unless you want to.”
Mia looked at his hand. It was big and warm and steady. She put her smaller hand inside it.
Together, they walked down the beach.
The pebbles near the water were darker and shiny, like they had been painted. Mia stopped at the edge of the damp place.
A small wave slid up towards them. It whispered over the stones, not quite reaching her toes, then slipped away again.
“That one didn’t get me,” Mia said.
“No,” said Dad. “It was being polite.”
Another wave came. This one crept a little higher. Mia felt the cold lick of it over her toes and jumped back with a squeak.
“It touched me!”
“It did,” said Dad. “Very cheeky.”
Mia looked at her feet. Her toes were wet and pink. The sea had touched them and nothing bad had happened.
Jack ran over, dripping.
“You did it!”
“I only stood there,” said Mia.
“That counts,” said Jack. “Standing there is level one.”
“What’s level two?” asked Ella, who had come down with her gran.
“Jumping over the foam,” said Jack.
Mia looked at the waves again. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to,” said Mum, coming to stand on Mia’s other side. “You can watch first.”
So Mia watched.
Jack stood with his dad and jumped as the thin edge of water came in. Ella jumped too, holding her gran’s hand. Sometimes they cleared the foam. Sometimes the foam caught them. Every time, the grown-ups stayed close, and every time the children laughed.
Mia began to notice things.
The waves were not all the same. Some were small and lazy. Some came rushing in with white tops. Some made a big noise but stopped far away, as if they had changed their minds. The water came up, then it went back. Up, then back. Up, then back.
Like breathing.
Mia squeezed Dad’s hand. “Can I do one jump?”
“Of course.”
They waited together.
“Not this one,” said Mia.
“All right.”
“Not that one either.”
“That’s fine.”
Then a small, foamy wave came curling gently towards them.
“This one,” said Mia.
Dad counted softly. “One, two, three.”
Mia jumped.
The water rushed underneath her feet and splashed her heels as she landed. It was cold enough to make her gasp.
Jack cheered. Ella clapped. Mum gave a little whoop.
Mia looked down at her feet, then up at everyone.
“I did level two.”
“You did,” said Dad.
The next few waves were small, and Mia jumped them too. Then a bigger one rolled in. It gathered itself with a low whoosh, white foam tumbling at its edge.
Mia’s fingers tightened around Dad’s.
“Back,” she said.
“Good choice,” said Dad.
They stepped back together. The wave rushed up the pebbles, faster than the others, and splashed around their ankles anyway.
Cold water burst over Mia’s feet.
“Oh!” she cried.
Jack shouted, “Big wave!”
Ella shrieked with laughter because her gran had hopped backwards like a startled flamingo. Dad laughed too, and Mum lifted her skirt out of the splash just in time.
For one small second, Mia felt cross with the sea.
Then she looked at Jack’s wet knees, and Ella’s laughing face, and Dad’s rolled-up trousers getting wetter and wetter.
A giggle bubbled up inside her.
“That wave cheated,” she said.
“It definitely cheated,” said Dad.
“It came past the line,” said Mia.
“We’ll make a new line,” said Mum.
Mia picked up a pale pebble and put it on the beach a little way back. “This is the Mia line. No crossing without a grown-up.”
“Very sensible,” said Mum.
Jack found another pebble and put it beside hers. “This is the Jack line. It is closer because I am braver.”
“Or wetter,” said Ella.
They played there for a long time, not deep in the water, just at the edge where the sea could chase their toes. Mia did not go as far in as Jack. She did not need to. She jumped some waves, watched others, and stepped back whenever she wanted.
After a while, her legs grew tired and her feet tingled from the cold. They went back up the beach, crunching over the pebbles to the picnic blanket.
Mum wrapped Mia in a towel. Dad brought chips in warm paper, and everyone sat facing the sea while gulls watched from a careful distance.
“Don’t feed them,” said Jack’s dad. “They’ll tell all their friends.”
Mia held a hot chip between her fingers and looked at the waves. From up here, they did not seem quite as enormous. They rolled and tumbled and shone under the cloudy sky.
“Were you scared?” Jack asked, with his mouth full.
“A bit,” said Mia.
“But you still jumped.”
“A bit,” said Mia again, and smiled.
On the train home, Mia leaned against Mum’s side. Her hair smelled faintly of salt. Her socks were in a plastic bag because they had got soggy. In her pocket was the pale pebble from the Mia line, smooth and cool against her fingers.
The train rocked gently. Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.
Mia’s eyes grew heavy.
In her sleepy head, the waves at Brighton were not too big any more. They were great rolling giants, friendly and foamy, running up the pebbles and rolling back again.
Whoosh, they said.
Goodnight, Mia.
Rattle-rattle-rattle, whispered the stones.
See you next time.
After the story
- What helped Mia feel brave at the beach?
- Why was it sensible for Mia to stay close to a grown-up?
- Have you ever tried something new one small step at a time?