Sitting by the pool at Hotel Cavala in Goa. Jay sips a fresh lime soda, Egg splashes away on the top step of the kiddies pool and little Dumps (aka Noah) is contentedly examining tiny sticks and stones on the ground whilst trying to lift his chubby leg up on the bench.
I'd like to say that yesterday passed without incident but I'd be lying. After a quick splash in the kiddie pool with both babies, jay and I stepped out with Dumps and were having a conversation about something or other when out of the corner of my eye I spotted Egg bobbing slowly under the water, then up, then under…my mind didn't register anything as he wasn't splashing or panicking and it took me a few moments to realise that he was in trouble.
A quick shout and Jay raced over and pulled him up out of the water. The poor angel was petrified, traumatised (and remains so) and luckily hadn't swallowed much water. He was okay. But I am not. Jay in his usual way doesn't seem to recognise the severity of what almost happened, but then maybe he can't let himself go there. Believe me when I say that I had a sudden, terrifying lesson of how quickly a child can drown – even when an adult is present.
The rest of the day was spent in rather typical, Goan Holiday fashion: a 90 full-body massage for Jay, a sunset drink on the beach, an apple sheesha pipe (for old times sake – ie. Our stint in Dahab many moons ago when we were but reckless, childfree 'travellers') and a too-yummy-for-words dinner of steamed Tibetan Momo's in Calangute later that evening.
Jay's rented his usual Enfield motorcycle (which means that I as dutiful wife will no doubt spend many confined hours in the hotel room with two monsters while 'Easy Rider' races around terrifying locals and large cows with his ipod earphones pumping out a reggae soundtrack).
I'm going to sign off now. Dumps is yelling 'Dadadadadada' and Egg is somewhere off on the other side of the pool and Jay not being known as the most conscientous of fellows cannot and should not be left as sole 'watcher' of rugrats. This falls to me. Let's just hope that I have no more scary stories to relay over the next few weeks. Talk about a wake-up call. One more incident like that and I'll have to fashion a few wicker baskets, deposit the boys in them, and sail them down with Baga River with a note that states:
"We loved them. We tried to care for them. We suck. Hope you can do better."