It was a proper Home and Away day. The weather was hot enough to turn the average metal seat belt buckle into a branding iron. There was no real estate left on the beach to put a towel down. Surf crafts covered the sand in every colour fibreglass known to man. One of the biggest Surf Life Saving Carnivals of the summer was on.
When not rescuing people from a nasty riptide known as the “backpackers express” on Bondi Rescue, the decent skins that are Australia’s surf lifesavers throw competitions. From little kids known as “nippers” to fully fledged Ironmen and Ironwomen, they race each other in skills you might find handy to have when saving someone’s life. Like running, swimming and paddling a rescue board up and over the pumping swell.
It’s a rite of passage for many Australian kids to battle the freezing surf to bring home a ribbon. Which made me thankful for being the daughter of an immigrant who was too Irish to know about anything like that as I sat watching while eating a gelato on my towel.
“Would we put our kids in that?” my boyfriend asked, impressed by the 10-year-olds who had just conquered waves we had deemed “a tad too scary to go for a swim”. It was a bit of an odd question given cats don’t usually swim.
His leer was so filthy it would have you reaching for hand sanitiser. A man over 40. A man who knew so, so much better
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A group of teenage girls, flushed from their race, ran into the waiting arms of their proud dads holding out Dryrobes. I was remembering what that felt like, having dragged my parents across Australia’s dusty sports fields and, just as I pulled out my phone to send them a thanks text, I saw it.
The look. Not an “ahh they must be thrilled, good for them” look but a leer so filthy it would have you reaching for hand sanitiser. And coming from a man. A man over 40. A man with his wife or partner walking just behind him. A man who knew so, so much better.
He flicked his eyes up and down their bodies clad in racing one-pieces without shame. These girls weren’t even 15. Just kids. I knew that the same way he did, from the announcer calling the “under-15s girls’ race” over the speaker.
I did what every reasonable person would do in that situation – I blocked him and caught his eye, making a face at him of utter disgust like I’d smelled a vicious fart and identified the culprit. He scarpered.
I didn’t want to make a scene because I hoped the girls hadn’t noticed. That on that day all they had to worry about was their race times and if they could maybe have a sleepover with their pals. It’s the same prayer I have for my two teenage nieces. Please God let them be innocent for just a little bit longer. Let them go about their business without being sexualised against their will. Let them not have to develop that constant vigilance just yet. Just one more year. Please.
Men had started to notice me before I left primary school and my mother had noticed the men. “She’s 11,” she hissed at the table of businessmen ogling my legs sticking out of my school skirt, staring them down and daring them to blink first. She taught me a valuable lesson – you don’t have to be polite to men who make you feel uncomfortable.
Being an Irish tiger mammy who would rip anyone hurting her children with her bare hands, she let me know that it was never my fault – it was just that dirty old men existed
But even then, I tried to explain it away. By 14 I was the height I am now, which is almost 6ft. Maybe they confused me for an adult. Maybe they didn’t know I was so young. But they did know, because almost every time I was yelled at to “show my tits” from passing cars I was wearing my school uniform.
As comedian Tina Fey wrote in her autobiography: “Almost everyone first realised they were becoming a grown woman when some dude did something nasty to them.” It’s so easy not to do that as a grown man. I’ve seen it because I’ve grown up around lots of good men. My father would suddenly find the ceiling cornices the most fascinating thing he had ever seen if my schoolfriends were passing him on the way out to the pool. There are many good men but that’s not the point, all it takes is one bad one, one look to make your insides drop and make a girl suddenly wrap a towel around her, face burning with embarrassment. Even though she’s done nothing wrong but exist.
