Heroic, pram-pushing Simon Webster takes his baby on an epic journey – to the flags.
Of all the challenges that parenthood brings – including sleepless nights, unwanted teenage pregnancies and being asked to help with algebra homework – none is more sapping of body and spirit than pushing a pram through sand.
The little-known 13th labour of Hercules (the one that finally defeated him), it works muscles that were never meant to move, turns a day trip to the beach into the crossing of the Nullarbor and extracts expletives that haven't been heard since the Middle Ages.
"Mother of a foul-smelling goat with smallpox! This is hard yakka!" comes the cry. And that was just from the baby.
Continents collide and mountains rise and crumble as the poor parent makes the epic journey from the steps to the far-off land between the flags that the gods in Speedos and funny hats have mockingly placed as far from the car park as possible.
Regular beach-going parents don't make this mistake. They carry babies and drag toddlers on boogie boards. But new parents and occasional beach goers who, incredibly, have forgotten what happened last time, sweat like buffaloes pulling a plough through a swamp.
On beaches all over Australia the sight of a pasty middle-aged man pushing a pram deeper and deeper into the sand while screaming obscenities about farm stock is nothing out of the ordinary. It's as much a natural part of the scenery as seagulls and rock pools.
But here on Byron Bay Main Beach, where an unwritten edict bans anyone under 18 or over 20, the sight is a spectacle. Swedes point and laugh; Japanese giggle; Brits stop playing football for a minute.
"I am not an animal," I find myself shouting as yet another backpacker takes a photo.
The hills in the distance become hazy and my mouth parched. I wrap a sarong around my head to fend off sunburn and someone yells: "It's Osama bin Laden." And, it's true, there are some similarities: a remote cave in Afghanistan is beginning to look appealing.
With my heavily pregnant wife pulling and me pushing, we finally reach our destination: a patch of flat sand between the flags, or at least close to them. We plant our umbrella and stand frozen for a moment like the soldiers hoisting the Stars and Stripes in the Iwo Jima monument, only a bit more tired.
We rummage through beach bags to remove the essentials: towels, sun cream, frisbee, tennis ball, colouring-in books, pens, hats, spare clothes, nappies, food, water, change table, first-aid kit, picnic bench, Hill's hoist and fridge-freezer with ice-maker.
A nappy needs changing. A child is crying. All around us, carefree young people frolic.
My wife mutters something about saggy boobs and stretch marks. Typical: just when we need solidarity, she starts picking faults in me.
At last the nappy's changed and it's time to pack up again. We'd better make a move if we're going to get back to the car park before dark.
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