11

Dad was an adventurer, he pushed the boundaries in life, probably chasing the highs to keep the demon lows at bay, but he enjoyed few things more than travel. He visited countries that nowadays are strictly on the Foreign Office No-Go list; Afghanistan, Iran and others, less imminent Islamic State danger maybe, but still incredibly remote and distinctly un-touristy: Colombia, Greenland, Faroe Islands, St. Kilda. Even when he visited me in the States, he turned it into an epic travelogue journeying from New York to South Carolina on the overnight train and then heading off across the Deep South for mint juleps and Bourbon in New Orleans. Life was an adventure as he saw it.

His intrepid spirit has always been there, having us two children wasn't a barrier to adventure for him. We certainly didn't have the standard 2.4 children 2 weeks in Spain all-inclusive resort style holiday, although I really, really wished that at the time! While friends of mine might have been heading to France or Spain or further afield in the Summer holidays, one year, we packed up our tiny white H reg Nissan Micra and headed up North for a road trip to the Outer Hebrides...just me, Adam and Dad, I have no idea to this day how Mum got out of it.

I was 11 I think, or just 12, a pretty vulnerable time for a girl, right on the edge of being a teenager, to head off for a few weeks with just the boys of the family and no female sanctuary or empathy at hand if needed. I was very self-conscious and sensitive at that age, I remember well feeling awkward and shy about everything in front of Dad, the naivety of childhood was wearing off and I knew I was growing up but didn't want to show it.

Anyway, despite the memories being mainly from photographs now, over 20 years later, we had an unforgettable time, mainly because we survived to actually remember it because thanks to Dad's "intrepid" spirit, we very nearly came a cropper.

We were at our final destination (nearly literally) on the Outer Hebridean island of South Uist; a perfect idyll, its white sandy beaches stretching out westwards into the Atlantic with no land between them until America. Hardly anybody lives there, only a handful of houses and businesses exist alongside a lot of birds! This one day, we had left our 'hotel' the Polochar Inn and were traveling around sightseeing when we ventured out across the beach on what seemed like a beach but what actually turned out to be a sandbank.

Well, turns out Nissan Micras don't particularly like sand, beachy sand or sandbank sand and we soon became wedged, me, Adam, Dad and all our belongings, perched on a sandbank on the edge of a beach on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. At first, we were full of bravado, Dad was full of bluff, beginning to try and dig the car out of the sand but one man (and two young kids) are no match for sand-logged cars and we were decidedly stuck! At this point, we didn't realise we were on a sandbank so to be stuck all day and just keep digging was OK we supposed and we would eventually get out.

I don't remember the exact perceptible moment of shift in panic but it must have arrived very shortly after Dad noticed that the tide was beginning to come in and that it was heading straight for us on what we now clearly reassessed as a fucking sandbank, not just the beach. I was old enough to quickly discern that a) no one was anywhere close to help us  b) even if we three managed to retreat fast enough for the tide, the car and all our stuff was doomed to the sea  and c) we were at least a few miles away from the road, could we even reach safety ourselves in time, especially with Adam only being about 8?

Panic built and built into hysteria, from all of us and there a lot of stressful shouting and crying. For me, I just couldn't believe I was stuck in this awful situation. Why was I stuck on a bloody sandbank, why had Dad got us into another ridiculous predicament, why did these things happen to us, why wasn't my family just NORMAL. Lots of whys. And resentment, as always.

It was all hands on deck, or rather, sandbank as we all dug away at the wheels. Dad decided to leave us digging to go and search for possibly some wood or planks, telling us to start heading for the road if the tide really got a move on. Incredibly, he did find some wood, driftwood I think that ultimately saved us, we dug it in under the wheels and managed to scramble the tin can up and out of its ditch, then we sped off to Terra Firma! We were all euphoric at first but looking back later, I think the enormity of the situation crept over Dad. It's all fun and games if it's just you, but looking after your two children as well, that's where responsibility curbs adventure. Retelling the tale to mum on the payphone that evening, I think she was extremely pleased when we all finally made it back home in one piece and I think it was our last trip away with Dad for a while.