I close my eyes and imagine the sand at Terrigal Beach sifting through my toes. I am about four years old, in my knitted swimming costume in 1942. My father hoists me onto his broad shoulders, my arms encircling his forehead, my face buried in his soft curly hair. The hills up from the beach were mainly farming then, contented cattle grazing on lush green grass. 

We spent many happy family holidays on the Central Coast. We took the steam train from Sydney along with many Aussie soldiers — more like a troop train, chugging and click-clacking over the rails, soot from the engine billowing through open windows.  The soldiers were such jolly fellows, considering they were headed north to join the Forces in Malaya. We were all on an adventure it seemed, them putting on brave faces, my four-year-old self oblivious to the turmoil to our north.

My mind now flies forward to the 1980’s – forty years since those childhood memories. Once again I feel the warm sand of Terrigal Beach, but now I’m flanked by my three children. Every year we return. Terrigal is very different now, with the Florida Hotel and busy shops; a tourist haven. The war in Vietnam is over. I am a war widow, my children without a father. Terrigal draws us back year after year. My youngest son buys his first surfboard and spends his days on the waves.

Another forty years pass. I have traveled the world, felt the sand of many great beaches. My children have given me nine wonderful grandchildren.

Now I’m in my autumn years, or so it is said, but it still feels like summer to me. Once again, Terrigal has drawn me back. Is it the breaking waves? The Skillion standing proud? Or is it simply the memories of a small girl feeling the sand between her toes.