Sand. Miles of the stuff, stretching off like it was trying to sneak into the next country undetected. A never-ending beige blanket, featureless as a budget hotel wall, and about as inviting. The air? Hotter than a jalapeño in a sauna. Every drop of moisture in my body seemed to be forming an escape committee, desperately plotting its route out through my pores. Give it another couple of hours and I’d be served up crispy on the outside, chewy in the middle.
Even the breeze—if you could call it that—offered no mercy. It was like standing in front of a hairdryer that had just been insulted. No relief, just more heat, blowing sand into every crevice. And then there was the smell—an overpowering stench of hydrocarbons thick enough to pickle a lung. Imagine a petrol station, then imagine it’s been given a gym membership. That made me smile, weirdly. Kharg Island really was like a monstrous petrol station—if the cars were oil tankers and the forecourt was the Persian Gulf. Thank goodness it wasn’t tarmac though. That stuff would’ve melted into a gooey mess faster than an ice lolly on a bonfire.
I’d escaped the ship for an hour’s liberty, trudging through hell’s own sandpit to the so-called “social club.” A grubby little bar where you’re rationed two beers per trip—less "cheers!" and more "why bother?" Still, after weeks at sea with nothing but waves and weevils for company, it felt good to have something solid underfoot—even if it was scorching sand and a floor that may or may not have been mopped since it was built.
In the past month I’d glimpsed Table Mountain from a distance while a helicopter dropped off supplies like an Amazon driver on steroids, and we’d skirted Madagascar before slipping through the Straits of Hormuz like a very slow, very oily eel. In a few hours we’d be full up and chugging back toward the Straits—hopefully to somewhere where the air didn’t feel like soup.
As I stood there, eyes squinting against the sun and thoughts melting like Cadburys Dairy Milk, my mind wandered back two months earlier... Cue the earth revolving in reverse, suspenseful music on a harp plays as we travel back in time.
Still sand. Still everywhere. But this time in glorious, tacky Technicolor. It stretched out in all directions like nature’s way of saying, “Don’t get too comfortable.” Skegness—the land of fish, chips and sunburned optimism. The sea was miles away, possibly in another time zone. A seagull hovered overhead, took one look at me, and clearly decided I wasn’t worth the effort. Off it flapped in search of richer pickings—probably someone eating chips with the reflexes of a sloth.
The breeze, bless it, actually had a hint of coolness, slicing through the blazing August sun that had Britain sweating like it was auditioning for the Sahara. The air smelled like a strange cocktail: salty ozone, cod, vinegar, and a generous dash of raw sewage. Eau de Seaside, unlikely to be bottled by Calvin Klein any time soon.
It was the summer of 1976—the stuff of legend. I was on holiday with mates, killing time before our O-level results changed everything or nothing. We’d pitched our tents in Ingoldmells, a name that still sounds like a medieval skin condition. We’d wander past Butlins, through a caravan metropolis, into town like teenage conquistadors looking for adventure, chips, and maybe a bit of trouble. The sea here played tricks. At Scarborough, the tide had the decency to stay where you could see it. But in Skeggy, it buggered off into the distance, presumably to have a nap.
Back on Kharg, I chuckled to myself, memories flickering like a home movie—dodgems, dodgy chips, and getting thrown off the rides for reasons we still debate. It had felt boiling back then, but compared to this place? Skeggy was a mild spring day. Here, even the night air clung to you like a clingy ex, all heat and no relief—except back in the ship's cabins, where the air-con was a literal lifesaver.
Two beaches. Two kinds of madness. Skegness and Kharg Island—divided by thousands of miles and taste in amusements, but oddly similar. Each had its pier, each its miles of sand, and each a peculiar charm that made you grateful—so, so grateful—that you could leave.
From a writing prompt about sea and seaside.
