THE tragic story of the family swept into the sea at Scarborough will have sent a chill down many parents' spines. We can all understand why the mother, seeing her children being hurled about in the treacherous, icy waves, ran along the railings at the edge of the sea wall until she reached a gap and leapt in after them.

It was a last, hopeless, desperate act. But what else was she to do? Listen as their cries faded into the distance? Watch, helplessly, as their heads disappeared under the water for the last time?

As I read the story, I felt a shiver of recognition. I have written here before of how I watched my own eight-year-old son Patrick struggle in the sea not far from Scarborough, dragged out suddenly by a huge, powerful wave.

Like the family in Scarborough this week, the sudden, overwhelming strength and ferocity of the sea took us by surprise. My husband managed - just - to reach Patrick, and haul him, with great difficulty, to safety.

"You nearly lost a son there," were my husband's first words when he eventually got his breath back. Moments later, a man and his son were dragged out at the same spot, but much further. There were two cries for help and then silence.

Within seconds, they were more than 100 yards out, their heads appearing and disappearing in the swell. We couldn't reach them. All we could do was call the coastguard, who arrived as, thankfully, the pair were washed up, alive, on some rocks further along the bay.

I had nightmares for weeks afterwards, picturing Patrick being swept out into the distance, where we couldn't reach him. In my dreams, I leapt in after him. I imagined what would have happened if the man and his son had drowned, and how we would have been consumed with guilt because we hadn't done enough to save them.

Those events of last summer still cross my mind now, particularly when I read about drownings at sea. Because I can picture the scene so vividly. I can still hear and feel the water and the terrifying force of the waves.

But it was a valuable experience because it taught us to respect the sea.

We always bring a mobile phone to the beach now. The children don't go into the water unless the tide is coming in. If they are caught out, the waves will wash them towards the beach rather than out to sea.

I now know to phone the coastguard immediately if someone is in trouble. I still agonise over the vital minutes I wasted running along the beach asking if anyone could reach the man and his son in the water, before thinking of shouting for a mobile phone.

We should have thrown our bodyboards towards them to use as floats, but I only thought of it afterwards. The fact that our story has a happy ending was largely down to luck. It could so easily have ended in tragedy.

I have since seen youngsters dodging and playing about in the alluring waves at treacherous spots on the North Yorkshire coast, even when there are warning signs. Just like us and the family swept away in Scarborough, they obviously don't appreciate just how dangerous and powerful the sea can be.

Sadly, the heartbreaking events of this week have at least highlighted the risks. For now...