The beach has been my happy place my entire life.

Growing up on Australia’s East Coast, my parents ensured my younger sisters and I were water babies from a very young age.

We spent many indulgent hours lying in the warm Bondi Beach sand, or making intricate drizzle sandcastles, or jumping over waves at the shoreline, as well as throwing handfuls of sand at each other, or splashing each other mercilessly with salty water.

All this family beachgoing was initiated by my Dad, who was up at the crack of dawn on weekends, making multiple sandwiches for the day ahead, and beseeching us all to get out of bed, it was a ‘good beach day’.

He just happened to have a weekend job right on iconic Bondi Beach.

Not only did he hire out surf craft, deck chairs and wigwams for public use, but he had another task which today would most certainly be frowned upon.

Not only by the Cancer Council, but probably by a plethora of bureaucratic bodies.

He was employed to spraypaint suntan oil, no spf in those days, onto the bodies of people wanting to pay their way to a golden tan.

Mostly young, scantily clad ladies.

I was a child at the time and didn’t understand my mother’s angst. But it was all in a day’s work, and of course my dad loved his rather unique job.

Dad taught me to surf. I was his tomboy daughter, I had no fear, and when it finally clicked, when I could finally get a wave on my own, oh the racing heart, the absolute joy!

Flying down the face of waves, often monumentally wiping out, losing my breath and having a nose full of saltwater were all part of those heady beach days.

As was the sunburn. My parents were olive-skinned. I was not. Sure, we sat under a wigwam shelter when not in the water, but this was the 1950s.

I do not remember applying anything other than a dab of white zinc across my nose and cheeks. Dad didn’t spraypaint his wife or children. Needless to say, I could write a book about personal sun damage.

Those days were nevertheless memorable. Long days in the sun which ended with us transplanting our sandy feet, wet towels, boards and assorted gear into Dad’s car for the short drive home.

Via the Bondi Hotel.

Dad and Mum loved a beer. Or two. They would park in the hotel carpark, then leave us three children in the car while they went inside for a drink.

Occasionally, Dad would come out to check on us, sometimes with a Blue Bow lemonade to keep us happy. Or to bribe us.

After a while, the parents would emerge from the pub, happy with a few under their belt, and we then drove home.

How times have changed!

I now look back and laugh at how free and easy, and sometimes politically incorrect and outrageous my early family life was.

Going to the beach for me is far different these days, but no less fun. I’m nowhere near as adventurous in the surf as I used to be - I’m covered in sunscreen, wear a hat and don’t lie in the sun.

Today, I watch young families arrive at our main beach in Kiama with carts on wheels, almost overbalancing with eskies, towels, cabanas, assorted boogie boards and beach toys. It’s a military operation setting up for the day.

Children are now dutifully wearing hats and rash shirts. Parents are tending to their every whim.

In contrast, we would hit the beach, jump straight in the water, and then we’d roam all day, from North to South end.

Mum had her sunbaking group, Dad worked, and we three kids only appeared back at our spot when we were hungry.

Different times, different ways of child rearing.

And if given the opportunity, I wouldn’t change a thing. I have just a bit of saltwater still flowing through my veins.

You can read more about Carol's thoughts at her blog, Carol Writes