Dangerous When Wet

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Dangerous When Wet

Well summer arrived this weekend. It’s been raining all week in a relentless downpour that makes going anywhere with a stroller a waterlogged event. But at a certain point getting soaked seems like a super fun activity compared to one more hour inside with a one year old. So to finally see the sun, not to mention a hot, crispy sun, was a fabulous turn of events. Apparently the entire Eastern Suburbs agreed because Bondi Beach was jumpin’.

The atmosphere here is a strange combination. It’s like South Beach meets South Street. For those of you from neither Miami nor Philly, it has all the glammed-out, razzle dazzle low cut, barely there, jewel encrusted everything, but done in a very grungy, punk, Zipperhead way. And on bright hot days like we had this weekend, it is a classic see and be seen . . . scene. (Sorry, couldn’t resist that). But it’s all very festive and fun and the crowds go away during the week so we don’t mind.

But here is what I do mind, these crazy Aussies’ stubborn refusal to be scared or, even a bit cautious, of horribly dangerous things.

On Saturday we took a walk to Bronte beach. It’s about 20 minutes south of us, but it’s a slightly smaller, calmer beach with a wonderful playground. After sliding and climbing for a bit, and having a quick lunch at a café, we took Abby down to play in the waves. I noted that the tide, on its way out, had left all sorts of seaweed and sea-goop up along the beach. As we stepped over the line of tidal leftovers, we saw that it was chock full of what looked like trash. Specifically, it was full of what seemed to be plastic baggies, or blue cellophane. The overall effect was that of the Jersey shore and it was disappointing given how clean and lovely Australia had been so far.

But then I remembered a harrowing swim with my dad off my parent’s boat in Miami. We were snorkeling about in Biscayne Bay when we spotted some Portuguese Men of War floating towards us. I’d always thought these very nasty jellyfish were about 5 feet wide, when in fact they are happy to make it to five inches.

Small. Sandwich bag shaped. Blue.

Swim time was over - - both then in Miami, and there at Bronte with Abby.

Marching over to the life guard stand, with a ball of wet, sandy toddler firmly in my arms, I asked. “Are those blue bag things all over the beach Portuguese Men of War?”
The lifeguard lazily glanced my way. “Blueys. They’re Blue Bottles.”
”Yes. Fine.” I said. “We call them Portuguese Men of War, but whatever, I mean they are quite dangerous aren’t they?”
Another lazy turn of the head. “They’re quite painful and you certainly don’t want a bubba,” he eyed Abby, “to be stung by one, it’d be fairly dangerous.”
I held my increasingly squirmy bubba a bit tighter. “But they’re everywhere! They are all over this beach, shouldn’t there be a sign?”
”Well,” sighed the guard, “they only sting when they’re wet, it’s best to just not go in the water when they blow in, you could try swimming down at that end.”
The guard made a slow, bronzed, fearless gesture to the other end of the beach, about a whole (how-is-that-possibly-any-safer!) 100 yards away. And then went back to gazing at the ocean for real dangers. Perhaps aliens exploding out of the surf with acid tentacles and laser death ray but certainly not a few hundred toxic jellyfish.

Les asked me what they said.
“Well, they are Portuguese Men of War. But no worries.” I said looking at the line of little blue boogers mere feet from the crashing waves of the Tasman Sea and the entire Pacific Ocean, the largest body of water on the planet. “They are only dangerous when wet.”

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