I’ve come a long way from the summer holidays of my childhood. It’s been eight years since I left school, and summers haven’t felt the same since. The universities I attended turned them into seasons of internships and deadlines, and once I entered the workspace, summer became just another quarter on the calendar. The magic had faded. The thrill of planning weekend outings with my working parents and the joy of piling into cousins’ homes for sleepovers that entailed late-night giggles, had all come to an end; until now.
This year, my five-year-old niece brought the feeling of summer back with her to Chennai, all the way from central India. She arrived with a checklist: “Visit the zoo, crocodile park, and beaches, lots of beaches,” she had scribbled, because this beach baby has been spending all her early years landlocked, surrounded by mountains, in a small tier-2 city. I had left the plans for the zoo and the crocodile park up to her grandparents. But for the beach, I had a plan. After all, she was sure to buy a sand castle-making-kit upon reaching Chennai with an excitement, ever so contagious.
Now, I know what you are thinking. I probably took her to Marina, or to Besant Nagar, or to one of the beaches on the Thiruvanmiyur stretch. But those were not it. I was determined to make this one special for her and so I decided to take her to an island beach — one of our coastal stretch’s best-kept secrets. One that my father came to know of 15 years ago. One that was synonymous with summer for me as a child.
So, on a cloudy Sunday, in May, we packed breakfast and lunch, and set out on a two-hour-long drive. With one car trailing another, we headed to Odhiyur, located 90 kilometres away from Chennai, en route to Puducherry.
On the banks of Odhiyur Lake stands the Mudaliarkuppam Boat House, also known as the Raindrop Boat House. Here you can hire a boat and ask to be dropped off at the island beach where you can spend a couple hours and return to the mainland. The boathouse also offers kayaks, pedal boats, water scooters, and speedboat services.
After making a quick pit-stop at Thiruvidandhai, ECR, for breakfast, we headed to our destination.
We reached the boat house a little after noon, but my family’s excitement hadn’t dimmed. “Iniku weather namma pakkam,” one of them commented, relieved by the absence of the scorching sun and the sweltering heat. To our surprise, soft drizzles also fell, every now and then, on our hands and faces like playful taps from the sky.
But the boathouse in my childhood memory was far quieter — at most, three families on a good day, ten years ago. In stark contrast, this time around, there were cars lined up inside the premises and at least seven or eight families scattered around. Some queued for boats, some returning on their boats from the beach, others revving up water scooters.
At the counter, we paid `3,500 to hire a boat and spend two hours at the island beach, which works out to `350 per person (we were nine adults, a five-year-old and a two-year old who were counted as one adult). We collected our life jackets from a room next to the counter and headed to the dock.
The arrival of a 10-seater motor boat, five minutes later, didn’t go unnoticed — my niece’s gleeful screeches made sure of that. She then, was the first to board, followed by her 85-year-old great grandmother. The low free board (the distance between the waterline and the boat’s deck) made it easier for the older adults of my family to climb into the boat.
What followed was a 20-minute boat ride.
Perched at the edge of the boat, I watched as we glided through the quiet backwaters — a mix of fresh and salt water. The air was thick with the scent of wet soil and occasional drizzles continued to fall upon us. We spotted locals on the banks, catching fish with their bare hands like herons in human form, competing with the birds that circled above the backwaters, scanning for their prey.
Mesmerised by the scene, we all fell silent. Suresh anna, the boatman, perhaps unsettled by the sudden silence, playfully rocked the boat — first to his right and then to his left. Startled at first, we quickly dissolved into laughter. With each shift, my niece let out excited squeals while the adults leaned over, dipped their hands into the water, and splashed each other with carefree joy.
Soon, the rocking stopped and Suresh anna turned the motor off, forcing our boat to a standstill. Pointing ahead, towards east, he said in Tamil, “That is kazhimugam (the estuary). This side is the backwaters, and on the other side of the land is the sea. If the water level increases they will mix together and that stretch of land will be submerged in water.”
My niece was quick to ask, “Apdina?” (Meaning?)
Suresh anna waited for us to break it down to her and then announced that he would now drop us off at the island. Once again, the air was filled with the hum of the motor.
As we approached the island beach, the familiar empty parchment of land from my childhood seemed transformed. Thatched roofs, dustbins, and sitting slabs made of stone, dotted the shore, giving the place a sense of care it didn’t have before. The coast, resembling Gokarana’s, is the perfect picturesque setting that would captivate influencers and dominate Instagram feeds.
We were dropped off at the island beach around 12.45 pm.
The sand on the island beach had no traces of plastic bags, papers, or discarded food; just soft, nearly white sand stretching ahead, with three other families scattered on the island.
We found a thatched-roof shelter where the older adults could rest, dropped our bags, and headed straight for the water. Near the shoreline, seashells were scattered in abundance, and tiny crabs darted in and out of the wet sand. The sea itself was a serene green-blue, and the water was almost clear. The sea even tempted the 85-year-old to dip her legs in.
The next hour slipped away like waves dissolving into the shore and our stomachs growled with hunger. Under a thatched roof we unpacked a Tamil picnic’s ritualistic puli sadham, lemon sadham, and thayir sadham, on our pakku mattai plates and ate.
Post lunch, my niece’s sand castle-making kit was out. She demanded everyone’s help, and so we were all at her command. A few took charge of drawing water from the sea, a couple of us became the designated sand-packers, and a few others fetched wet sand for moulding. Before long, our sandcastle began to rise on the shore, complete with walls, towers, and even a car (made out of a car mould that came with the kit) parked outside its walls. The eastern wall, however, was under siege by the sea, which launched wave after wave in an attempt to breach it.
The second hour also came to an end and Suresh anna arrived. Back in the boat, we reeked of salt water and sweat — when has Chennai’s humidity ever spared us during summers? Almost everyone seemed worn out. Everyone but one — my niece. Her excitement hadn’t died down. She was damp and full of life.
Back at the boathouse, there was a shower and a changing room where we had to wait our turn. “After all these years and improvements on the beach, they haven’t increased the number of showers and changing rooms,” I thought to myself.
Once clean, we gathered our things and headed back to the cars. As I glanced at my phone, the notification bar showed “300+ messages” from a single chat. They were all photos from the day.
On my way back, I grappled with the thought that this once seemingly untouched island beach was now a shared treasure that even the state’s tourism development corporation promotes. Would it remain as pristine in the years to come? Would tourists treat it with the same care I have shown since I was eleven? I hope they do.