Our son was slow to walk. He was a bright kid. Bright enough to sit around and let us wait on him hand and foot. After his first birthday, my wife and I would take turns holding his hands and swinging him from side to side so that his feet brushed the ground in an imitation of a drunken spaceman attempting to walk on an alien planet. The kid thought it was great fun, especially since he was getting around without any effort whatsoever, less effort even than the slow crawl or the bottom shuffle that was his usual method of locomotion.

Eventually we gave up trying to coax him to walk upright. His arms were regularly stretched by our efforts, and it began to seem as if, while never walking upright, he would soon be able to cover more ground using knuckles and toes as a normal infant moving on sturdy legs alone.

My wife and I spent a lot of time on the white beach and in the clear blue Mediterranean waters that lay a few yards from our Famagusta apartment. Wayne would spend his time staring at the pink and blue pastel houses that bordered the beach, sifting sand, sucking formula, and catching the occasional sand tick. He was only a few yards away from us, seemingly rooted, contentedly surveying the warm, blue world around him.

We dived under the waves and held hands as we looked at the fish that swam unconcernedly across the white seabed. We were young and could hold our breath for a couple of minutes without too much trouble. It was warm and peaceful under the water, the sea like silk, the water clean as a country stream. And after a minute or so, we surfaced, relaxed and smiling.

The beach in front of us was empty. The beach for a hundred yards on either side was dotted with a few adults and children, but our slow-moving chubby baby was nowhere around. In a way we were lucky. We didn’t have time to panic. A tall, wild looking man emerged from the narrow alley between two houses. Clutched in his hands was our son, looking interestedly around from an unusually high vantage point. I waded ashore warily. The man looked very upset.

“Hi,” I said. Thanks for bringing him back. He’s never done anything like this before.”

“I should hope not,” he snarled. “Come take a look at this.” And he stormed back down the alley, still clutching my son. “I’ve never seen a kid that age run so fast,” he said as we emerged into the street.

There were bits of car all over the road. Bits of three cars, actually. Two Cypriots, slightly the worse for wear, were screaming and waving fists at each other, but they turned and presented a united front to my guide as he walked up. “I’ve been twenty-five years in the air force,” he told me, and I’ve seen action, but this is the closest I’ve come to getting killed. He glared at me, and the two Cypriots, recognizing the real enemy, surrounded me.

“What happened,” I asked weakly.

“Where were you,” he said. “I can’t believe you let your kid run around in the streets. How old is he?” I told him and he looked shocked. “Put him in for the Olympics,” he said, “if he survives.”

“He can’t walk yet,” I said stupidly.

The other two men were yelling at me in Greek. The RAF man looked at me in furious disbelief. “He came out of the alley like a bat out of hell,” he said. “Don’t tell me he can’t walk. He was running. You’re lucky I was able to stop.” He looked at his wrecked little sports car. “This man,” he said pointing to the larger Cypriot, “smashed into the back of me. And this man,” he gestured wildly, ”smashed into the back of him. Don’t tell me he can’t walk. You people ought to be ashamed of yourselves, letting the kid wander around like that.” My wife was behind me, muttering that I was telling the truth, our infant was not yet walking.

Finally, the RAF man set my son down, and Wayne toddled off to inspect the wreckage. My wife scooped him up. This is as bad as it gets, I thought, telling him my name, very lowly rank, and serial number. “Sorry,” I muttered. “Who are you?”

“Group Captain Alec Simmonds,” he growled.

And that’s how my son learned to walk.