The 5.30 Easter Trampoline Throwdown

As anecdotes go, this tale is one of which I am both embarrassed and proud—the former immediately after the event in question (and due, largely, to external shaming by adults), and the latter in more recent hindsight (and with the greater perspective of actually being an adult).

The time? A gorgeous Easter weekend when I was about 10 or 11 years old; a bookish and somewhat bullied child, but with odd outbursts of chutzpah that coincided with my Taurus star sign. The scene? An idyllic seaside camping resort outside East London where the Wild Coast (in the Eastern Cape province of South Africa) just begins—a place called Yellow Sands, which, to this day, holds some of my most cherished family-oriented memories.

Over the years, we had stayed at these particular camping grounds many, many times in our caravan and tent—often with extended family from inland South Africa—their appreciation of the glories of our coastline merely adding fuel to the fire of our own holidaying fervour.

It is difficult to describe to someone the sheer magnificence of waking up to the loud roar of the surf, the beach literally ten feet from where you are lying snugly in your squeaky camp bed, separated only by a nominal bit of coastal bush and a narrowly winding downhill footpath from the vast beauty of the Indian Ocean’s waves. The fine, golden-white sand that can be soft and warm beneath your soles, then cool and sticky, sucking greedily at your feet in that weird slurping way that the waterline does. Or the slight foggy coolness that permeates the very air, and which turns pleasantly muggy when the temperatures begin to climb at midday—a clinging film of moisture over every part of your body reminiscent of active holidays and picnics on the beach (the grit between your teeth after drinking juice your mom poured into a plastic cup for your delectation conveniently forgotten).

Needless to say, this was considered heaven-on-earth by all our non-coastal relatives, and for the first thirteen years of my and my sister’s lives, that was also true for us. Yellow Sands was a paradise of perpetual swimming, seashell-hunting, and sandcastle building (only to be interrupted by meal and snack times, for which our mothers slaved away behind the scenes and beyond our own limited, hedonistic peripheries). We were diminutive, barely sentient creatures, existing in the moment of our enjoyment-driven bliss, inspecting rock pools and hassling our dads while they fished off of the very deepest-reaching of the rock outcrops spearing into the deep blue yonder. The bluest of skies, the brightest of sunshine. The greatest of times.

Now, imagine, if you will, this veritable paradise of a setting, and then add friends of all shapes and sizes—as many children as your little heart could desire to run around with, to play tag with, and to talk nonsense with. And, even more glorious: add a large, built-in trampoline at the top of the property, right in front of the modest house that serves as the admin and check-in office. I can reliably and categorically inform you: no greater place on earth existed in the late-90s early-2000s. Fact.

As anyone who has left a random collection of children (mostly) unattended for any period of time can attest—especially when a toy or activity with limited capacity is at stake—a set of rules will magically come to the fore, and if somewhat Lord-of-the-Flies-esque, then at least consistently barbaric in their application. In this case, a relatively civilised code of trampoline usage was negotiated; an elegant system based on collectively mnemonically keeping track of a list that is compiled as children arrive and confirm their application to jump on the trampoline. There is always a Timekeeper (with a watch), though it would invariably be different children, and usually the older preteens. Depending on how many children awaited their turn, the temporal length of trampolining slots would be determined accordingly, i.e., many kids meant 2-3 minute turns, while very few meant 5-7 minute turns.

The beauty of this system cannot be overstated, nor the inherent administrative competence of all the children who enforced it, for children constantly came and went during the day (jumping was banned before 7am and after 6pm, per the sign) and many of their names were never truly known (this led to some unfortunate, yet accurate, appearance-based descriptions when telling others who was next). And yet—wonder of wonders—the List always remained intact; tangibly represented by the kids seated all along the wooden fence that surrounded the trampoline, and the trampoline, with its limit of two jumpers per turn, was always occupied. Never—and I mean never—was a blatantly unfair turn taken, for the waiting, watching masses would have ripped the offender to shreds. Or at least, that’s what I thought…

Until one evening, when it had just gone 5:30pm… (The gloaming was an antsy time at the trampoline, because we had to eyeball the situation re whether new people could be added to the List and still manage to jump within the Management Assigned Times). My sister, who had always been quite small, easily-intimidated, and shy in our childhood (note: the latter amongst strangers—she was a particular kind of firebrand when only the immediate family were present) was waiting for her turn.

I had gone just before her, had exited on the designated side of the trampoline (opposite the ‘entry’ side, as per our standing rules) and was still coming down from the high, both literally and figuratively, when I noticed she wasn’t on the trampoline as expected, but rushing tearfully towards me. In her (what we affectionately dubbed ‘gin-and-tonic’ toned, but others would probably call ‘husky’) trembling voice, wringing her hands nervously, she informed me that a boy had stolen her slot.

I was aghast at this lack of protocol, and turned to the trampoline where the culprit was blithely and aggressively jumping away, and constantly tripping the other kid by “double-bouncing”, as we called it (basically, you make sure to land on the trampoline a split-second before the other person does and throw extra weight behind the landing, essentially coming back up and stopping their landing with your own momentum in the opposite direction). Besides stopping their jumping, it hurts the other person’s knees and is considered bad form—at least in those informal kiddie trampolining circles I frequented in my youth.

I recognised him as being a loud mouthed and generally disliked boy who had been menacing kids on the periphery of the trampoline crowd the preceding few days. He had also managed to take a few turns that weren’t his by intimidating the younger jumpers when no-one was looking. A braggart and a bully. He had gotten away with his antics until then because he chose his victims carefully, and he made sure never to do so within earshot or sight of anyone who would intervene on their behalf. Besides the fact that he had a blond bowl-cut (those were all the rage back then), my memory has failed me in providing any further defining features—but I do remember that he was a head shorter than I was and had a wiry, energetic air about him (this will become relevant shortly).

Naturally, I confronted him from the sidelines—mid-jump, as it were. The specifics of the exchange escape me, but I was definitely tentative (initially), as I was (and always will be) a conflict avoider. But, more importantly: I was a stubborn little rule follower, and he had broken those rules. When he refused to get off and give my sister her turn back through my negotiation efforts, I appealed to a higher authority.

The older Timekeeper listened; she had (apparently) been distracted by a conversation and hadn’t been guarding the order of the List as she ought to have been. Subsequent to my remonstrances, she brought her authority to bear and the usurper huffily jumped off the trampoline. However, he was not to be outdone! The spiteful tyrant proceeded to shove my petite sister so hard she almost fell over—and I saw red. Taurus had been flagged and was on the proverbial warpath.

To be fair: I at least gave him a heads-up—some cautionary advice, of sorts. I said: “You. Don’t. Push. My. Sister.” (The tone and pauses are accurately represented by the capitals and full stops, I can assure you. No exclamations, for it was ominous, not hysterical.) He clearly thought, based on my round granny glasses, hunched shoulders, and usually timorous manner that I was all bark and no bite, because he responded to my warning by pushing my sister again.

He had been warned.

The die had been cast.

I pounced.

What exactly followed, in terms of technique, I couldn’t tell you, because my memory is patchy. All I know is: I had never, up until that point, in all the bodily altercations I had gotten into with my sister throughout my childhood, fought that hard with my whole being and without attempting to pull my punches. But then, from the very start it became clear—neither was he.

We literally rolled around in the dirt, scratching, kicking, and punching each other wherever we could. I couldn’t see anything, my face stinging and going dumb after a few of his swipes which sent my specs flying, so I shut my eyes and gave as good as I got. Despite his slightly smaller size, he was vicious and shockingly strong. Like a honey badger, I remember thinking in a panic, eyes screwed tightly shut. And with long nails for a boy! as he carved a few furrows along my arm. So, for the first (and last) time in my life, I was also physically vicious.

The next thing I knew, we were being dragged apart—a large hand gripping my collarbone, my t-shirt neck bunching tight against my throat and choking me—this almost hurt more than the actual fight. A man had us suspended at opposite ends by the scruff of our necks, one in each hand and arms wide apart. He was yelling and shaking us. We, the rabid warriors of a moment ago now looked a sorry pair, with even my nemesis dusty and temporarily cowed (did I spy his eyes welling up? I was definitely crying muddy tears by that point).

Always the goody-two-shoes, and used to being heard in such situations, I had begun to try and explain in a high-pitched, self-righteous babble, but the man from whose hand I was dangling was having none of it. He peremptorily set us down and pushed us in the direction of the campsite, yelling for us to go away NOW. The silence. The shocked stares of the trampoline hopefuls. I think that was the only time the trampoline springs weren’t squeaking away that entire Easter weekend.

And then, the crushing shame set in. I had been in a fight. An actual, no-holds-barred fight. Me—the conformist kowtower whose nickname was “Professor Internet” at school because I was such a prissy know-it-all. In my dazed return to our caravan my sister quietly walked next to me (thankfully having returned my sadly misshapen glasses to me), and then I had the distinct pleasure of explaining the main strokes of what had happened to my parents (though withholding the piece of key testimony related to the motive, for some unknown reason).

They, just like the man who broke up the fight, to a less violent degree, admittedly, declared me to be in the wrong. There was a punishment (no more trampoline for the rest of the weekend—the travesty!) and a long lecture while I hung my head in shame and cried quiet tears. Generally speaking, my parents didn’t tend to stick their noses in childish squabbles; they very much had a philosophy of “let them get on with it” and only got involved if serious injury or cruelty was imminent.

The rest of the Easter weekend went by in a blur which I can’t exactly recall now, as an adult, (probably more sand, sea, and sunshine that erased the pertinent parts) but I do remember the all-consuming shame I had felt for having been in a fight at that time. Interestingly, it was only years later that my sister and I, while reminiscing about the entire palaver, told my mom why I had gotten into the fight in the first place, and her reaction surprised me.

“Well, you did the right thing. But you should have told me all of this then,” my mom said in her no-nonsense voice. At our expressions of shock and consternation she went on, indignantly: “You were defending your sister—and even if I don’t condone violence, if no-one else was standing up for her and he was hurting her, then you did the best you could in that moment. You said he’d done it to other smaller, weaker kids before, right? Well—I’ll bet he thought twice about doing it again after that…”

Strange, that as an adult, I now take comfort in the day I pummelled another human being as though my life depended on it. And no—I don’t condone violence or fighting either, though now it’s more on personal principle than because I’m afraid of the consequences, as I was when I was a child.

But all the same, considering that I shy away from physical discomfort or pain (and always have), am squeamish about blood (and absolutely LOATHE anything to do with the stabbing or breaking of skin and flesh), and always overthink everything I do because I worry about making scenes and possible consequences… Considering all of these things that would have withheld me from fighting that boy who was picking on my sister, I feel proud of my past self because she cared more about intervening on her sister’s behalf than all the things she feared as much (or even more) in her little world at that time.

And so, we come to the end of my reminiscence—not with a bang, but with a whimper. My takeaway from that petty interlude? Don’t get into fights over who gets to have a go in the trampoline next, but if you have to fight? Then make sure it’s about something worthwhile.