I Take My Son to the Beach and Am Reminded That I Named Him Correctly

This is on me.

I named my child after the Dread Pirate Roberts, and then, for reasons I cannot now defend, acted surprised when piracy began manifesting at a cellular level.

The first day of 2026, a brand new year bright and shiny ahead of us.

We decided to use it well, and go to the beach.

Westley saw the ocean and immediately reverted to factory settings.

Pirate mode, activated.

The beach itself leaned into Westley’s dreams.

The cliffs loomed.

The waves lapped into caves like they were reaching for treasure.

Everything about the morning whispered something epic is about to occur.

As the big boys, Nathaniel and Robbie were sent to lead the charge into the waist deep water. Following, we picked our way carefully around the submerged rocks at the base of the curved cliffs.

The shore disappeared from sight, and our adventure began.

Westley’s face was lit from within with the confidence of someone remembering a past life they were very good at.

Joy poured out of him.

Awe.

Delight.

A sense that yes, this is exactly where he is supposed to be.

He held tight to Tandy with one hand and me with the other.

The thing about Westley, people think he is reckless, but what he actually is is strategic.

He’s dramatic, he wants adventure, but he wants it in a way that he knows he will win.

Insurance, if you like, in the form of his ships crew.

And once appropriately surrounded by said crew, he is fearless.

The cliffs periodically opened up into caves.

Caves with sides made from the fossilised ribs of ancient shipwrecks that Westley seemed to recognise. He approached them reverently.

The water glowed, the walls curved like memory.

Westley stood ankle deep in destiny and the ocean recognised him back.

The word felt enchanted.

I had a Blue Lagoon moment, briefly considering living there forever, to raise feral children among the rocks with an endless supply of fresh seafood and total freedom from laundry and bills.

Speaking of seafood… time to go crabbing.

Arriving at the estuary, we grabbed our gear and started to stomp into the crab infested shallows.

“NOPE!” says Westley.

I turned to see him at a standstill, giving me a look that conveyed

‘a solid NO to that plan and 50 feet around it, thanks.’

Right.

Up you go then, up top on Tandy’s shoulders like a Pirate Parrot.

Westley was happy with the arrangement and promptly assumed command from the higher ground. He rotated between my back and Tandy’s shoulders, pointing with the authority of someone in the crow’s nest:

There!

Big one!

Nawww too small, throw it back!

He was excellent at this.

He could spot all the dark hollows where the crabs were likely to be hiding, making their little homes in the sand.

Which is when we encountered a particularly difficult crab.

Westley titled it Baby Crab.

Now this crab was small.

Technically.

Attitude wise though?

ENORMOUS.

This was a crab with entitlement.

A crab who knew his rights.

A crab who was one forced eviction away from going nuclear.

We scooped him once.

Aww baby crab, says Westley.

Throw him back.

He circled around so we scooped him again.

Still too small, released once more.

Look, I’m not certain that crabs enjoy flying through the air, but in my mind I always hear them “Weeeee” as we flick them out of the scoop, so I assumed they were fine with it.

An accepted part of their daily activities, perhaps.

The crab version of the YMCA.

I didn’t think too much about it really, to be honest.

Perhaps that was a mistake.

Because this Crab, Baby Crab, did not appreciate the exercise.

By now, Westley had fallen asleep on top of Tandy’s head like a pirate parrot who had successfully outsourced risk management.

Meanwhile, Baby Crab was looking at the ruin of his latest burrow, vibrating with rage, replaying the injustices of his life.

He snapped.

Then he snapped literally.

SNAP right on Tandy’s ankle. A nip with the full emotional force of a creature who has been underestimated by giants and will not go quietly.

YOU LITTLE SHIT!

Tandy jumped, me and the boys erupted in a panic smashing around to get away from the nippy crab.

Westley woke yelling scrambling at his side for his imaginary cutlass, like these situations were what he was born to handle. He resumed command immediately, directing us urgently to shore.

We left the beach intact,

the crew survived,

Baby Crab got his closure,

and I walked away knowing two things for certain:

One - seeing the world through Westley’s eyes is the purest kind of magic, and

Two - you do not name a child after the Dread Pirate Roberts and expect the ocean to ignore it.