Falmouth

An eight hour bank holiday drive to the sea should be rewarded with a swim. We drove to Falmouth, traveling so slow as to be overtaken by bumblebees and arrived with our bodies cast as car seats, but we got to see our friend and we got to see the sea. We walked to the Harbour and gazed at waters that by rights were too cold to contemplate, and we contemplated. Stared at the waves and bit our lips and wondered if we dared. We didn’t dare that night. We were in Cornwall and so we drank Doombar, ate fried fish and gherkins wrapped in paper bags and walked home. Away from the sea’s inky whispers and up steep terraces, spooking cats by saying hello, to nightcap on homemade grappa and sleep to the pops of an open fire. Tomorrow was for swimming.

Next day, we didn’t get to the beach ‘til evening, and any warmth from the day had long since ebbed. But the sea had caught the sunshine and was holding it to glow opal, it lapped at our feet as we dipped with nude legs and sweaters. We watched dogs wander the beach, surreptitiously pissing on bags, and we stirred the sand with our toes. To go further, towards horizon seemed madness, and so we hesitated, stared at each other and walked as far as our clothes allowed, withdrew, then hitched skirts higher went in again and wondered. But it was irresistible, and so we undressed quickly, before we could change our minds, and jogged to the shoreline, winter skin prickling at April’s shadows and dashed in, gasping, hurting and exhilarating, braving each shocking splash, swam out beyond our depth with burning muscles and shrieks. We ducked and kicked and remembered weightlessness. The water was perfect. And when we swam back towards shore we came out superheroes.