A few weeks ago, shortly before our daughter Edie turned one, we took her to Coogee Beach for an early morning swim. It was spring and the weather was glorious, so soon enough we'd ripped off all her clothes so she could splash about in a shallow pool of salt water.
As naked as the day we'd met her, she was having a ball, laughing at the unfamiliar sensations of sand beneath her toes and water between her fingers.
"You should put some clothes on her," said a man in his fifties, apropos nothing. This man was playing nearby with a boy of about three who was, I noticed, clothed. I could only imagine his comment was motivated by skin cancer and sun damage; but I was wrong.
"Paedophiles," he said earnestly. "They take pictures with digital cameras."
I didn't know what to say.
"What, at this beach?"
"At every beach," he said.
I still didn't know what to say, so I took Edie by the hand and walked away. At first, I thought he was being kind, trying to save me and my daughter from some terrible fate. Slowly, though, I started to resent this bloke's intrusion into our morning. He'd soured the mood.
I talked to Jo about it on the way home.
"As a parent," I said, "you're always on the lookout for danger, whether it's big dog dog or a big wave or a pervert with a camera. But you can't live your life in fear that something bad might happen. You can't stop going to the beach because there might be a big dog, or a big wave, or a pervert.
Otherwise the bad guys win and the kids and the good guys lose."
And who knows? Maybe the bloke was a prude. Or maybe he was just a kind-hearted fella who meant well. Clearly he hadn't learned that you don't tell parents how to parent. Especially when they're total strangers.
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