Last weekend, there was a marriage in the little park beside the beach. What a lovely bride. Drinkies and canapes before and after for the guests. A swish sit-down affair.
Several times over the summer, I've witnessed adult and children baptisms in the shallows.
And my readers of old may well remember I arrived one morning at Hataitai Beach to discover a posh group in their Sunday best drinking from champagne glasses, and swanning around on the sun-deck.
I rudely pushed through the group thinking how dare this lot monopolise my space?
The water at the bottom of the steps had some white-ish murky stuff to it but, intrepid adventurer that I am, I swam through it.
Across the bay I swam. And back again, through the white stuff.
Then, a repeat. And another. And more. Eight times I swam through the white spotty murkiness.
I finished with a triple seal roll just to show that I wasn't scared of no white stuff. It was probably foam. I climbed up the steps, shook myself.
A finely-dressed middle-aged lady approached me. "I suppose you wonder what we're doing here? My uncle died," she said. "He loved this beach. We've just scattered his ashes-"
We both looked to the bottom of the steps to where I had swam, not once, not twice but eight times through the old gentleman's ashes. Not to mention those darn seal rolls!
I'm telling you right now, my four beloved readers, that I rushed into the changing shed and showered solidly for about 25 minutes. I used up a three-quarter full bottle of hair shampoo in an attempt to thoroughly cleanse myself.
Some film-maker should one day make a soap opera or a sitcom about the doings at Hataitai Beach. For a fee, I would be prepared to act as consultant.