It is not yet 9am, but the mid-April sun is warm. A gentle northerly blows. Upon the golden sands of Palm Beach, nearly thirty of us gather near the red and yellow flags of the patrol. Children splash, oblivious to the occasion for which we have assembled.
Beyond the line of breaking swell, a single surfboat approaches a bobbing vessel. An urn is exchanged. The tide forces them apart. With four oars raised, the surfboat riders honour the ashes they scatter over the ocean. It was her favourite stretch of beach.
They row to shore and are welcomed by those of us waiting on the sand. Warm embraces and idle chat distract from the emotion. It is not long before the autumn weather bleaches away the sadness.
The middle son, one of the paddlers, sweeps his daughter up and places her gently in the beached surfboat. Instinctively, she reaches for the rudder and surveys the unfamiliar. Turning her head, she closes her eyes and lets the breeze wash back her golden curls.
No wonder it was among her favourite places.
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