Barnet Beach. Yuck. What a poorly named place. Barnet Rip Rap Waterfront Park would be more apropos.
A little backgrounder. For the last two years I have been telling my Sweetheart that instead of driving from the ‘burbs to the furthest reaches of the city, Spanish Banks, when the little ones want to go to a beach we should head out the Barnet Highway and visit Barnet Beach.
I will never again propose this idea to her or anyone I ever meet, ever again, so long as I live.
Last weekend I was on Daddy Duty and the little ones said they wanted to go to the beach. Seeing my window of opportunity, I loaded the kids in the car and headed out the Barnet Highway.
Now remember when you used to go to the bar, way back when, and at 1:45am you were looking around for that special someone with whom you knew you could make that magical connection? You saw a cute looking number to the side of the bar and you made your move. And you got the number.
A couple days later you make the call, arrange to get together for a lunch and when you get to the place where you are supposed to meet and the only person in the lunch place is someone sitting there with half as many teeth as they are supposed to have, a bald patch on the side of their head and an extra 60 pounds tied to their ass.
Not what you thought you saw at 1:45am.
The same thing happens with Barnet Beach. It is a neat thought to drive by on the highway and think about how cool it is to have a beach out there and all that. All good until you make the mistake of sitting down for lunch with your date or if you turn off Barnet Highway.
First thing you notice is the parking. The beach and the parking lot are practically in different time zones. Fine if you are a fit young couple out for some exercise and a hearty walk along the beach. Terrible if you have twin toddlers both north of 30 pounds.
So after parking you walk down to the “beach”. And as soon as you get their your kid says, “Daddy, I’ve got to go pee.”
The washroom is another 100 days march ahead. As a result you now have a kid with peed pants and shoes full of urine squelching along beside you.
You keep soldiering on because you know there is a sandy beach somewhere ahead. Just as you get there the sun slips behind the mountain and it instantly goes from being a warm sunny day to cold. And you have a kid with wet pants. And wet shoes. And another kid who can’t stop reminding the other kid that she peed her pants.
Miracles do happen. We find a piece of beach with SAND! The girls are happy! They can build their sand castle.
Except that the tide starts to come in. Like a race horse returning to the barn.
And the beach disappears.
Now you have two kids with wet feet and shoes who are cold, tired and hungry who want their mommy.
And the car is in a different time zone.
You now have 70 pounds of children to pack back to the car. Across railway tracks. And a train the length of Canada crosses before you get across the tracks. And that train keeps whistling making your kids cry out, “TOO LOUD!!” as they plead with you to make it stop whistling.
And you know that you still have to climb the equivalent of the Chilkoot Trail to get to the car.
When I got home I willing told my Sweetheart that all this time I had been pleading with her to go to Barnet, I was WRONG and I was sorry that I had bothered her about it. Yes, I APOLOGIZED.
I will never again return to Barnet Rip Rap Waterfront Park. Never.