An Irishman abroad

Brown's Bay - a near death experience

Dear Reader,

Whilst I am in the mood for confessing deep-rooted fears I have, due to near-death experiences, I feel the urge to further cleanse my soul by documenting a terrifying ordeal I experienced when I was a cocky teenager, several years after the incident with the ‘safety’ wall in the school playground….

Many of you will have heard this tale before and because of that, I really don’t expect you to read it (but knowing how nosey you all are – I’m pretty sure that some of you will!)

It was the summer of 1988, and I had just turned sixteen. I hadn’t much of a care in the world (provided you ignored the money problems, the terrible acne problems, and whether or not I would ever lose my virginity). It’s hard to believe that almost 15 years later, nothing has changed. *ahem*

Ahhh – the school summer holidays - a whole nine weeks off with nothing to do, apart from lazing about on warm sunny afternoons, chasing the occasional football around. Sheer bliss and waited for in much anticipation for the rest of the year and second only to Christmas time as our most eagerly awaited event of the school calendar.

The reality, unfortunately, was quite different.

Eight weeks and five days of sitting inside, playing on the computer, cowering inside as the wind howled outside and the rain lashed against my bedroom window.

Just for a change, the other two days started off with really great weather. Unfortunately, this upturn in the weather took us all by surprise, so by the time we had dragged our lazy arses out of bed and greeted the afternoon by running out of our houses naked, save for a pair of outrageous Speedos - brandishing a water pistol and a few water bombs ready to join in all the fun- the rains would come back again, forcing us to return to our bedrooms, in my case, back to the overheating ZX Spectrum 48K - my first “home computer”, friend and companion for so much of my early teenage years.

That year, my brother had asked for a tent for his birthday, and we spent several nights camped out in the back garden. Not exactly Scott of the Antarctic stuff – and we were able to run an extension lead from the kitchen to power up the stereo, lights and a small portable TV. It wasn’t exactly getting ‘one with nature’ but at least we still had access to a few creature comforts.

If the weather was too cold we simply slept in the garage, which had long since been used for the actual purpose of storing a car, but was actually the official headquarters of the Clare Heights Action Force (C.H.A.F.) – our gang at the time. We had built a den up in the rafters of the garage and used to sleep up there on wooden boards.

Then there was the time that we camped out in an old disused car belonging to one of our mate’s dad. The purpose of this particular camping out ‘trip’ was to guard the wood for our annual 11th July bonfire.

At this point, I feel the need to explain myself:

This is something that takes place as part of the annual 12th July celebration amongst the Protestant people of Northern Ireland. The bonfire harks back to a time when property and family belonging to Protestant farmers in the Portadown region, came under siege from local Roman Catholic Defenders, as they were known. Small fires, or beacons were lit along the rolling hills of Mid-Ulster to warn fellow Protestant neighbors of impending attack.

For those of you that are interested - this was in fact the birth of the Orange Order. It was formed after the “Battle of the Diamond” in the late 18th century. The fight was between the Roman Catholic Defenders and the Protestants of the area. When it ended the Protestants formed a circle, joined hands and declared their brotherhood in “loyalty to the Crown, the country and the Reformed religion”.
Surely you must have seen them on TV? For as we all know, nowadays, due to the ‘true to life’ portrayal of the world through the eyes of CNN and the BBC - they are the scourge of Ireland and the reason why the island of Ireland is at war still to this very day.

As we all know – if it wasn’t for these guys walking to their church services on a Sunday afternoon, or celebrating their heritage and culture by parading in front of their friends and family, then Ireland would be in a state of blissful harmony. In fact - as long as these mainly middle aged and elderly men continue to parade (as is their right – like anyone else, fortunate enough to live in a democracy), the island of Ireland is destined to go to hell in a handcart. I'm surprised they haven't managed to pin the JFK assasination, the disappearance of Lord Lucan, and the foot and mouth crisis on them as well.

The reality is, in fact, a lot different. The 12th July is a festival of music, comparable to New Orleans, or the Nottinghill carnival. The streets are lined with spectators of all ages, taking in the many sights and sounds that the parades have to offer.

But I digress. Nowadays, these bonfires are a social gathering for the local community, on the eve of the biggest day in the Orangeman’s calendar. For fear of sounding like I’m romanticizing all of this too much, let me put it into perspective:
Unfortunately, like many social gatherings, there is a lot of drink taken at these events and at some of the bigger bonfires, there is the chance of trouble – arguments and fights amongst drunken Protestant revelers.
We can draw a painful parallel from this, for throughout the history of Unionism, we have spent too much time and energy by fighting amongst ourselves, to even contemplate a world were we could try and resolve some of our differences with the Nationalists.

Anyway, the bonfire in the estate where I lived, Clare Heights, was never like this. For one – we didn’t have enough of us to make a very big bonfire and those of us that wanted to, were all in our early teens, so it was never going to get to reach a size of any great proportions. It was basically something to occupy us for a couple of weeks in July to keep us off the streets (well on the streets dragging old carpets, carrying wooden pallets and rolling tyres (because everyone knows that these take a long time to burn).

So getting back to the story about camping out in the disused car…..

As I said - it belonged to a father of friends of ours, a fearsome man called Mr. Ferguson (we dared not call him anything else but). His two sons - Colin (nicknamed Coco for obvious reasons) and Stephen Ferguson (nicknamed ‘Geeko’ for less than obvious reasons) said that we could all camp out in the car to guard the firewood and other less useful scrap that was donated to the bonfire by the local residents.

So why guard all this junk, if we were planning to burn it anyway, I hear you ask?
Well - we were protecting it from attack by kids from nearby, larger estates – that’s why! We had to make sure that they didn’t:
(a) Steal all our junk
(b) Burn all our junk BEFORE the 11th July
Our estate was quite small in comparison to the others, such as Thornhill, Erskine and Avondale. Also going against us was because, in their eyes at least, we were all little rich kids.
In other words, whilst we were living in houses that our parents were getting into huge debts to pay for, they were living in houses that our parents taxes were going to pay for in government sponsored accommodation that dominated the other estates, and was home to many of them

In truth, we were petrified of these other kids – but the opportunity to camp out in this old yellow Volkswagen Passatt proved too great to resist.

Basically, the point that I am trying to get across is that we used any excuse we could to avoid sleeping in our own nice, warm and (more to the point) comfortable beds.

As a small footnote to this little tale, I should tell you that shortly after eleven o’clock that night, Mr. Ferguson came out of the house in his dressing gown and his eyes mad with rage.
“Colin / Stephen - get the f**k in the house and stop f**king about!!”
They meekly obliged, but the rest of us were allowed to remain – in fact he came out with a flask of warm drinking chocolate and biscuits. “Now, are ye all right lads? Youse need yer heads seen to, camping out in that aul’ wreck of a thing!!”.
And with that, he went into the house again.
Strange things - adults – strange things indeed…

Another point I should mention was that ‘the bad boys’ from the other estates didn’t come, our bonfire stash remained untouched, and we were able to build it the following day. Later the next night, we watched in great pride as the huge (or so we thought at that time) bonfire went up in flames.
As the ambers of the fire died down and the last of the spectators returned home - we made our arrangements to meet for the big parade the next day and headed back to our own nice, warm, comfortable beds (at least on this occasion), for some much needed rest.

Anyway, later on that summer, I managed to get a job working in Belfast International airport. My money problems were sorted! OK – it was only part-time and probably only temporary, but with the finances a lot healthier all my troubles would soon surely vanish. It would only be a matter of time before the skin problem would disappear (I could afford lotions and potions!) and my days as a virgin would most certainly be numbered (because everyone knew that girls put out more to guys that had money!).
Life was looking good (even if the weather wasn’t)

One day my brother Ady, who was 13 at the time and a couple of his 13 year old mates - Wonka (nickname) and Kelso (real name!) decided that they wanted to do ‘proper’ camping. This involved actually going to a campsite near the coast, about 20 miles from where we lived for a couple of days.

Our father had told us stories of when he had gone on similar trips with his mates, as a kid, so I guess it was with this knowledge that our Dad allowed Ady to go.

Upon hearing this, my mother freaked and said that (as a compromise) they couldn’t go unless a ‘responsible adult’ went along with them.

Unfortunately for the three guys – they were unable to find any responsible adults so I was assigned the task of "at least trying to behave like a responsible adult". Perhaps the fact that I was now a part of the employed world meant that people were starting to take me seriously!!
(Although with the benefit of 15 years worth of hindsight and seeing how seriously I take myself let alone others, I very much doubt it).

So – once I had a few days off from work, we went to Brown’s Bay, a beautiful little natural cove, a few miles north of Larne on the stunningly beautiful Antrim Coast. It has a small campsite that overlooks the Irish Sea and apart from a small shop and a couple of cottages, there is nothing for a three-mile radius. It’s a wonderful part of the world, and when the sun shines, because of the shelter provided by the geography of the surrounding Glens of Antrim, it provides a natural suntrap.
Our timing couldn’t have been better, because luckily for us, it just so happened that this was to be the warmest 3-day stretch of the year so far.
My dad gave us a lift one evening after he finished work and he stayed to help us get the campsite prepared. I honestly think if he could have got the time off work he would have joined us.
After we said our good byes, we went gathering firewood, lit our campfire and tucked into our chicken soup, baked beans and bread feast that we had brought with us. At some point, a black Labrador appeared and we fed it as well.

After dinner, we all (dog included) sat in the twilight of dusk, surrounding the fire watching the flames and sparks dance in the quickly darkening night.
Sometimes we told stories and jokes and teased each other but for the most part of that evening, as I recall, we just stared at the fire as if hypnotized, our minds occupied with nothing more than the innocence and optimism of youth, taking it in turns to stoke the fire or play with the dog, or to change the music quietly playing in the background. (Yes the ghetto blaster and a good supply of batteries had made it as well).

Later, as we all climbed into our sleeping bags inside the tent, we patted the dog and tried our best to explain to him, that whilst he may be man’s (and teenage boys’) best friend, there was absolutely no way that he was bringing his slobbery mouth into the tent to drool all over us as we slept. He seemed to understand.

In the darkness of the night, as one by one, we all approached sleep’s warm embrace, I entertained the other three with a few of my favourite ghost stories. This continued until we started to hear noises outside of the tent. At the sound of this, I quickly shut up, closed my eyes and pulled the “Iron Sleeping Bag” over my head, hoping that whatever was rustling outside would be away in the morning.

After some time spent straining to listen for noises above the sound of the Irish Sea lapping up against the beach, I dozed off to sleep – long after the other three had. I was quite embarrassed by myself. So much for being the responsible adult! However, little was I to know just how far from being the responsible adult I really was - as I was to find out the following day…..

That morning, we woke up really early – before eight o’clock. The sun was shining through the fly sheet of the tent, and it was already starting to heat up the tent – not to mention the effect that our baked beans, bread and chicken soup combination from the night before had taken it’s toll on the ‘atmosphere’ within the tent.

As I unzipped the front of the tent, I stuck my head out to breath in some fresh air but instead jumped back with a yelp of surprise as I was greeted with a slobbering wet kiss from our newfound companion, ‘the dog’. Apparently, our 4-legged friend had made the noises that we had heard the previous night, as he nestled in for the night beside our tent as we slept, protecting us!

I told the rest and we immediately burst out of the tent to run down to the beach and play ‘throw a stick down the beach so that the dog can get it, then chase the dog as he runs away with it’ game. Still - we were amazed that the dog had stayed with us overnight and felt more than obliged to indulge our canine friend with his fun.

After an hour of this, we then went up to the local shop to get some breakfast. This basically involved crisps, chocolates and lots of drinks – with an ice-lolly to follow. Our appetites suitably satiated and with more than enough sugar in our systems to last a week, we started to explore our surroundings.

Rather than leaving me describe the surroundings – check out:
http://ni_towns.tripod.com/larne/browns_bay.html

As you can see – it’s a very picturesque spot but not exactly rich in things to do. Young adolescents rarely appreciate scenic beauty – especially when they have no (really) responsible adults to point it out to them.
However, for us with our sugar-induced buzz, every nook and cranny became a wonderful source of entertainment - perhaps not for the breath taking scenery, but certainly for nature’s ability to provide all sorts of ways to tease and scare each other. We chased sheep, we threw water over each other – we pretended to throw each other over the cliff to a gory death, smashing on the rocks below – you know the usual stuff!
We ran out to the ‘Rocking Stone’, a prominent local landmark and then proceeded to climb up it and jump off it. Standing there since the Ice Age, and then us cheeky wee bollox come and trample all over it!

We tried to fish with home made fishing rods that we had tried to build, based on instructions we followed in the SAS survival Handbook that Ady had purchased with his birthday money at the start of the summer. (see: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0002171856/103-9160898-3619864?vi=... for details). Naturally, we caught bugger all – how do those SAS men manage it?!

All this we did with our four-legged friend in tow, following us in everything we did without question and boundless energy – no doubt aided and abetted by the junk that we had fed it that morning.

Once we had spent most of our energy, we returned to the campsite for a rest and then to go mess about in the sea. Once we got back there, we discovered the place to be packed with people and very soon, ‘the kids’ got chatting to a few girls their age from Belfast.
Soon, we all headed down to the beach. Ady, Wonka, Kelso, the three girls, the dog and me all together like something out of a Northern Ireland version of an Enid Blyton story.

Whilst they all started playing up and down the beach with the dog, I was left to lie in the sun and occasionally glance at a book I was reading at the time. No idea what it was – but I have no doubt that it was extremely highbrow stuff, like The Lion, the Witch and The Wardrobe.
The beach was really busy, even thought it was a weekday. Lot’s of mothers were there with their children, and there were plenty of student types skiving off a few classes. To my right at one end of the beach there were about 8 guys a couple of years older than me, playing football. They seemed to be having fun and I wanted to go and ask them could I join in – but like I have said before I was always a bit small for my age and these guys being big 18 and 19 year olds were quite intimidating to me, so I lay back and watched them for a while, keeping an eye on Ady and the rest, before returning to my book. Bored with the book, I placed my favourite baseball cap, a natty effort with ‘The Beastie Boys’ emblazoned on it over my eyes to shield them from the sun, and lay back preparing to doze off.

Readers NOTE:
If you go to http://www.goireland.com, in their website you will find a small paragraph describing Brown’s Bay as:
“The most popular tourist spot in [Islandmagee], Brown's Bay has a beautiful, safe sandy beach bounded by hills on either side. It is an ideal spot for bathing, and a popular place for picnics…”

I can assure you, Dear Reader, that never a truer word has been said but the author was not certainly one of the many people on the small beach at Brown’s Bay that sunny afternoon in August, for if he had been – I am sure that he would have removed the word safe from his description!

As I lay there resting peacefully under the cap, my slumber was disrupted when I heard Kelso shout “Jonny – look!” I jumped up from my restful position to see Kelso pointing out to sea at a football gently bobbing away from the beach. I recognized it as the ball the students had been kicking about earlier.

What happened next, Dear Reader, is something that I am neither proud of nor ashamed of, but something that will stay with me, haunting me any time I am near water, or see something similar on TV.
I looked at Kelso and the rest looking at me to do something, I saw the worried look of the little girls faces, and before I know it, I had been possessed by the soul of David Bloody Hasselhoff and I’m running down the beach towards the sea.
I noticed one of the students was approaching the sea to go after the ball but as he did I called over to him “It's OK, I’ll get it!!” Raising my hand in a sort of “Don’t panic! I’ve got it covered” kinda way.

Lord knows what the guy thought, as he saw this skinny wee midget with a crap Beastie Boys cap, skipping out into the sea. I had managed to convince him not to go any further, but thankfully, I hadn’t convinced him enough to make him abandon all thoughts of getting the ball himself.
He stood there open mouthed as I tried my best to run in out to sea, twisting the peak of my cap around on my head so that it wouldn’t blow off in the wind that I was generating in my haste to retrieve the ball.

Just like Mr. Red Speedos himself, I ran into the water as far as I could and then started swimming towards the ball. After a few moments of swimming I had the ball in my sights and was closing in on it fast.

There was just one problem.

I never was the strongest of swimmers – or technically very good at it either, so my ‘technique’ involved a lot of splashing and a lot of effort, without really making any real progress. The combination of all this splashing about, coupled with the outgoing tide, meant that it was very difficult for me to get to the ball.

I began to tire - the sugar buzz from earlier well and truly spent. Realising this, I started to panic, but made one final effort to get to the ball, knowing that once I had this in my grasp, I would be able to use it as a buoyancy aid on my return to shore.

I didn’t make it.

Exhausted, I stopped swimming but not realizing just how far I had gone from the shore, I didn’t think or feel the need to tread water, so I immediately sunk like a lead weight. Just before I went under – I made a mad and unsuccessful grab for my Beastie Boys cap as it came off my head and started off on its long trip to Scotland.

I have no idea why.

I sank for an indeterminable amount of time – it could have been less than a second but it sure as hell felt like a lot more. After what seemed like ages, my feet hit the bottom of the sea below. Frantically, I pushed myself from the bottom up to the top again. As my head broke the surface, I tried to shout for help, but I opened my mouth too soon and ended up swallowing a mouthful of salt water instead. All that came out of my mouth was a choking gargle. I barely glimpsed the student still standing and staring, as I disappeared under again.

It was dark – I couldn’t see anything. All I had was the sinking sensation until once again, my feet hit the bottom and once again, with desperation sinking in, I frantically pushed myself back up to the surface again.

This time I opened my mouth at the right time, but was still coughing up seawater from the time before. I managed a strangled “HELP ME!!!” before disappearing under again.

Once again, I was sinking, my body tiring all the time. My life was not flashing by my eyes but I was frightened - really frightened. I was sure that this was the end – and all I could think of at the time was how disappointed Mummy and Daddy would be that I couldn’t behave like a responsible adult.

Sink. Hold my breath. Hit the bottom. Push. Break the Surface. Wave my arms about. “HELP ME!!!”. Sink Under.

This time, as I sank to the bottom again, I thought I saw the student swim towards me! Excited, and a little bit rejuvenated, I hit the bottom again. I put all the effort I had into it. When I surfaced – the student was almost there but not close enough.

I went under one more time.

Tired and scared beyond belief I made one last effort to get back to the surface again. The student was there! I grabbed on for my dear life.

“Listen to me I’m going to swim back to the shore”
“NO!! DONT LEAVE ME” – I screamed grabbing on to him even harder

He slapped me across the face.
“If you don’t fucking wise up – we’re both going fucking under!”

I still held on, but was a little less hysterical.

“I’m going to swim back to shore – you lean on me, I’ll keep you up and kick as hard with your legs”

And off we went - him trying his best to swim as strongly as he could and me leaning onto his back with one arm and kicking with both legs. I was still coughing but I was hopeful that I was going to make it!
My confidence somewhat restored, it was then that the embarrassment of it all, started to set in. For the first time, I noticed all the spectators my little escapade had attracted. Mothers were staring open mouthed – their hands covering them – as if to hold back screams. Children were crying. I was vaguely aware of my brother screaming my name. If I had more wits about me at that point, I would have appreciated the whole drama of the situation, bottled it and sent it to US TV.

IT COULD HAVE BEEN ME INSTEAD OF DAVID BLOODY HASSELHOFF FROLICKING ON THE BEACH WITH PAMELA ANDERSON!!!

Soon we reached a depth where we could walk into shore. Coughing, exhausted and totally mortified, I started walking, finally convinced that the ordeal was over.

But my embarrassment was not quite complete yet. Barely 15 meters from shore I stumbled over some submerged rocks and fell into the sea again. Before I had realised that I wasn’t likely to drown in a foot of water. I was frantically spluttering and waving my arms about trying to get to my feet like some human impression of a newborn calf. The student picked me up and we continued to the beach.

I collapsed on the sand. “Are you OK? Do you need an ambulance?” asked the student.
“No – I’m OK - thanks very much!!”
I started crying.
“Are you sure you’re OK?”
“Rea – re – really – I’m OK th – tha- thanks” I sobbed. And off this guy went – back to his football-less mates and they got into their cars and left.

My brother came running over to me, tears streaming his face – he gave me a big hug that knocked what little wind I had left in me, and I cried even harder. Wonka and Kelso stood looking on, silent and awkward.

Just then, a neighbour of ours appeared. She had been there with a friend and their kids and had watched the whole scene.
“Do you want me to call an ambulance, Jonathan?” she asked.
“No – I’m OK thanks but please don’t tell my parents!!”

Seeing the panic in my eyes she agreed – and to this day she still hasn’t.

In fact none of us have. To this day, not one member of my family, apart from Ady is aware of just how close I came to death that day. For that is what I truly believe. That nameless student, who I will never see again, saved my life that day. It really is as simple as that. What an absolute hero, and an inspiration to the rest of us. Although perhaps if he’d had heard some of my terrible jokes and boring stories, he might have had second thoughts….


As a truly tragic footnote to this tale, I need to tell you about an event that happened a few years after the events of that summer in 1988, when we had all ‘grown up’.

I was at Uni, Ady was working as a carpenter and as it turned out Kelso and Wonka both became lorry drivers. Kelso was doing long-haul stuff working for his cousins haulage firm. Wonka was driving for a nearby quarry in Mallusk, on the outskirts of Belfast in the Cavehill, a large imposing hill overlooking Belfast that sweeps down to Belfast Lough.

One day, Wonka – real name William Bradshaw, was driving with a full load of freshly quarried rocks down from Cavehill to a small town called Glengormley. As he approached the town center traffic lights at the bottom of the hill, the brakes in his lorry failed. Faced with the choice of mowing down all that he took in his path at the crossing, pedestrians, cars and all or ‘taking the lorry out’ by crashing into a building at the side of the road to stop his momentum, he instinctively chose the latter.
He crashed into the building and was killed instantly. Nobody else was injured.

William was a quiet fella, originally from Belfast, with a wonderful temperament. He just never stopped laughing – even at my crap jokes – and even when we took the piss out of his ‘dodgy Belfast accent’.

He died a tragic hero, through no fault of his own – I almost died because I was a complete fool and idiot and completely and utterly through my own fault.

The world is a strange place, Dear Reader, and I don’t have any answers, but if there is someone or something out there and we are all part of a ‘Grand Design’ then I really would like Him/Her/It to share with us – JUST WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU UP TO?!

I really don’t know what I’m trying to achieve by putting down all these little stories down. It’s partly because I like to write, it’s partly because I enjoy the reactions I get from you, Dear Reader, but most of all I enjoy going back in time to relive these different stages in my life.

On this occasion, the most enjoyable thing for me about writing this tale has been hearing William’s laughter in my head and his ‘dodgy Belfast accent’, and to remind myself how lucky I am to be experiencing life’s riches with you all.

William Bradshaw, R.I.P.