John Coulter: Memories of water pistol fights on fun-filled Sunday school outings to ‘The Port’

It would be a day-long venture and there would be no problem falling asleep that evening when we returned home.

After the halt was closed, it would be a fleet of buses and cars which would leave the Presbyterian church car park as the convoy made its way to Portrush.

While it was known as the Sunday school excursion, all organisations in the church attended - the Bible class, youth fellowship, bowling club, Presbyterian Women’s Association, Mid Week Bible Study, Boys’ Brigade and Girls’ Brigade. It was traditionally held on either the last Saturday in June or the first Saturday in July.

Whatever date, for me, it marked the official end of the school year and the start of the summer holidays. The church families would either decamp to the west or east strand car parks in that wonderful seaside town.

In my primary school years, my first port of call was a wee corner shop which always sold the summer special editions of The Beano comic. Whilst I was an avid Topper and Victor reader, The Beano summer special was always a “must get”.

And no trip to The Port would be complete without a trip to Barry’s amusement arcade, especially ramming each other in the dodgems.

Generally speaking, many in the congregation would arrive in Portrush just in time for lunch - which was a feast of home-made salad sandwiches, washed down with very sugary tea, and a host of traditional Presbyterian tray bakes.

But the best part for me of the excursion was buying the water pistols! For 364 days of the year, squirting someone with a water pistol was heavily frowned upon in the Presbyterian congregation.

But on the day of the excursion, almost like a scene from the horror movie series The Purge, that ban would be lifted, water pistols would be bought and the soakings would begin - anyone and everyone from the congregation was fair game as targets.

Indeed, the next Sunday when we would gather in church, the talk would usually be of who got soaked the most, rather than the good weather, what we had for lunch, or even the fun at Barry’s.

And so the water pistol curfew would begin for another year. The one sin you did not commit was to bring the water pistol to any church event. Water pistols were only to be produced at the Sunday school excursion to Portrush.

Needless to say, as the Presbyterian minister’s son, there was one member of the Kirk Session I despised because of the way he had made an example of me. I gave him the nickname Bald Eagle. He’s dead now, so he’s not here to defend himself.

Bald Eagle, a bachelor farmer, had once been my Sunday school teacher.

We were a lively class and all the lads were great craic. But Bald Eagle didn’t appreciate us having a laugh.

One Sunday when I had only been a “born again” believer for a short time, he decided that this weekly craic should end.

His way of doing it was to strike me in the face in front of my classmates, reducing me to tears. I was being made an example of simply for being the minister’s son. From that day on until I finished the Sunday school year in Bald Eagle’s class, I never smiled at him. I only spoke when he asked me a question from the catechism.

There was only one solution - ambush him at the Sunday school excursion with a water pistol; soak the elder - and use your cross-country Boys’ Brigade and Ballymena Academy skills to make a run for it!

For the next few years, after buying my yearly water pistol at The Port, I roamed that seaside town looking for Bald Eagle, but he was nowhere to be seen.

I was later told that he was one of the few members of the congregation who never went on the Sunday school excursion, even though he was a Sunday school teacher!

From the day he reduced me to tears in that Sunday school class to the day of Bald Eagle’s passing, I never again spoke to him except to answer questions in that Sunday school class.

I cheered in front of mum and dad when I was informed I was moving to another Sunday school class!

Even in later years when I entered journalism, I would occasionally meet Bald Eagle on his tractor. We never spoke. We just looked at each other as if he was North Korea and I was South Korea staring across the demilitarised zone.

My water pistol from my days at The Port sits ready in my man shed should Bald Eagle’s ghost ever come to haunt me!

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Dr John Coulter has been a journalist since 1978.