Folkestone

My last sea swim was on a September evening in Folkestone. We travelled from London by car, and though the day was still warm when we left, we kept one eye on the clouds that rush ahead of us, hoping we’d dare to get in the water. Arriving at a deserted town centre, the last sun of the day picked out the tops of buildings – revealing a grandeur not evident at eye level, where off licence and charity shop windows said ‘closed’.  The wind launched itself at us, grabbing loose clothing and drawing it away from the shore and we exchanged a familiar look – challenging the other to stay any qualms. I’m never the first to say no to the sea.

Sea swimming in September. The pleasure of the water made more acute by the chill of the air, when the land seems prematurely cool and the waves more temperate.  There’s a tension between land and sea, where each year the earth warms early, has it’s head turned by May sunshine, while the sea gives up the coolness of winter with more reluctance.  Only the attentions of  a long summer will thaw the sea, and when it has, a fickle land has already turned it’s head to autumn. So,  you learn to love the sea in whatever mood you find it, and you swim at every chance you’re given.
We walked towards the edge of the land – the first sight of distant blue becoming grey green and moody as we drew closer. From Folkestone town we walked down steep, uneven stone steps dank with a mix of dying leaves and recent rain. But the sea was alive, animated with shadows. What had seemed benevolent from above revealed itself as something other when at the shoreline, where the waves crested large and exciting and risky. We changed quickly, so there was less time to change our minds, facing out to sea for modesty, though the beach was deserted.  Then walked in, me first, striding forward through the first shock of contact and diving in as soon as I was deep enough. His progress more slow, with each step a grimace in the exquisite chill, but eventually he makes it in and so we swim.

We swim out, as far as we dare, further than if we’d been alone. We’ve swum together often and know each other well. The sea was grey, and hid us from ourselves and from each other, our bodies quickly consumed by darkening water. I lay back, arms spread, feet towards the land and we talk. Sometimes the waves lift me and I look at him from above, other times it was he that rose while I fell. The sea linked us, and moved us in unison but we stayed separated.

While swimming, it’s always been me who looks out further, who wishes to go on, whose head turns less towards home.  The same is not true of me on land. We paddle and splash and stroke and talk, and then he dives away from me towards the shore, and I don’t see him anymore.

Favourite Swims

Sometimes, when in libraries or charity shops, staring at stuffed bookshelves I feel a familiar feeling rise – an ache, for what I’ll never read and never know. All the words, the labour, the experience which pass me by while I spend my days shopping and shitting and repeating myself. And the same ache with swimming, when each time I return to a known waterhole, I’m not exploring, not eye level with new waters meeting sky. On trains, in cars, on foot, I’m always drawn to a glimpse, a flirt of blue. The possibility of cool, new plunges, of new gravel or mud underfoot, new birds to spot while drifting alongside the roots of new trees. But so often I go back to where I know I can swim, where I know I can scramble or jump and submerge with ease.  There’s comfort in the experience of swimming the same waters, of familiarity with an environment, a safety which relaxes my body and allows it to divine the subtle differences of seasons and days, of morning and evening, that lets me enjoy the brush of mystery fish and reeds. I want to swim the world, I want to see the land from out at sea, but more, I want to swim, to rise and fall with waves that match my heart and my breath. The shore is always at its most beautiful when viewed from afar, but within the reach of simple strokes towards home.

The Last of Summer

The final days of summer have been hot, a mixture of sticky skin and scorched, already dying leaves. It gives the opportunity for swims in lakes that have begun their autumn chill without a reluctance to emerge and expose damp, dimpled skin to the wind. I swam the Serpentine at the end of the day, feeling overhot, overtired and underhappy, my mind on water. Walked to the park, through crowds milling Exhibition Road, squinting in the sun after a day in temperature and light controlled rooms. Through the grass, where the crunch of leaves underfoot flushed squirrels and wood pigeons from beneath trees. The light turned swarms of gnats to shimmer. There were no clouds.

It seems that the summer has offered too little of this, London outside has mirrored me, with dark often outweighing light, though there’s been sunshine too. It seems strange that the heat of the day made me melancholic and needing to swim. Perhaps it’s natural, just the last days of summer.

So, I reached the lake, passed bikinis that never meet water and kids in sunhats with ice creamed faces. Saw my first swan of the day, idling, unmoved by the exertion of nearby oarsmen. It was busy on the bankside but only one other swims. I changed quickly and entered the water. Colder than I expected but as the chill envelopes me I feel it’s customary relief, the coolness leach into my busy head. So I swim, arms stretch out, cleave through dark waters and the already dead of this year’s summer. Swim towards that which makes me sad, but through what’s become my solution.