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.