Sandcastles - Autism and Down syndrome

It is a hot, Melbourne, summer day some years ago.  Large chunks of the population have moved from the city to the bay side towns, along the Mornington and Bellarine Peninsulas to benefit from the coastal breezes.

My husband and I lounge on folding chairs in the shade of a boathouse, watching our two small boys playing in the sand. 

The elder boy, Duane, plays in the shallows like a beached whale and rolls his slick, wet body in the warm sand. He also enjoys toting buckets of seawater up the beach to watch the liquid disappear into the sand. His short, pudgy body waddles as his sand laden bathers sag beneath his crotch. He is content and happy in his activities.

The younger boy, Miles, is equally content to play alone. His solitary play is unlike his older half brother. Miles’ lightly tanned skin and agile body make him physically indistinguishable from other beach users, but this five year-old boy has autism. His repetitive activities are ritualised and obsessive. He sits in the shallows absorbed in the gentle lapping of the waves on the beach as he flaps his hands in excited delight. Then he moves to the dry sand and sifts handful after handful of the warm grains through his fingers, watching the play of light as the sand tumbles to the ground.

Duane moves towards other children as they enter the beach. His natural gregariousness impels him to seek playmates. His Down syndrome, is no impediment to his social urges and the other youngsters are unconcerned and accept him as he is. Soon he has gained their support to build the ‘biggest sand castle in the world’.

Meanwhile, Miles returns to the shallows to watch the waves lap against a small dinghy that is beached nearby. He gives no sign that he is aware of the noisy castle builders.

As parents we keep a watchful, yet lazy, eye on all the children as we enjoy the opportunity for quiet shared conversation. 

Two more sandy urchins approach our section of the beach. They walk along the shoreline collecting shells and other ‘treasures’. They could be brothers with their sun-bleached hair, bronzed, lean bodies and matching swimsuits. Nearing Miles they note his proximity to the dinghy and perhaps think they would like to float in the shallows, if given the chance. 

As the duo approach the lone water-watcher, my husband casually rises and ambles to a position close enough to assist any conversation, as Miles’ social skills are limited and his language consists of repeating the last few words he has heard, a characteristic known as Echolalia, common in children with autism.

Making conversation, the older of the two boys looks directly at Miles and asks, ‘Is this your boat?’

Miles barely acknowledges their existence. He remains with his back to the pair. He merely echoes, ‘Your boat.’

The first boy shields his eyes from the sun and leans impatiently closer. ‘No.  It’s not my boat. Is it your boat?’

Again the echo returns, ‘Your boat.’

His questioner shrugs and turns to his companion.

 ‘Let me try,’ says the second boy. ‘Is this your boat or somebody else’s?’

Immediately the echo returns, ‘Somebody else’s.’

The second boy smiles smugly. ‘See. I told you he didn’t know who owned the boat.’

They pass the water-watcher and move on to the castle builders. Soon they are enlisted to the common cause.

My husband returns to his chair, chuckling. As parents of children with disabilities, we sometimes become overwhelmed with the enormity of the task we face. 

Somehow Miles negotiated a situation, which could easily have sent him screaming from the beach. Instead he gave his parents a gift.

 ‘That’s the longest conversation he’s had so far!’ my husband reports gleefully. 

By Lisbeth Wilks