10th June 2024

Swimming back to March

There’s been a big wash overnight. Now the trees are dripping but not yet blown dry. There is wind enough. Grey puddles bleed from verges and the silver grey sky hides the sun behind a thick cotton wool cloud.

At eight, it’s around thirteen degrees on the beach but a smart north north westerly has blown in to make it feel significantly colder. The flag blows horizontal, giving the occasional flicker to salute Monday morning.

On a grey windy morning, the shingle sounds terrifying, crashing and banging as if ten metre high waves are raining down on it. It always sounds huge, the timeless sound of stones washing against stones and back again.

The sea is gunmetal, fierce-looking yet we’re just fifteen minutes past the first low tide. This fierce is false, it’s a chihuahua with a borrowed bark. It’s only the wind that will bite.

I can see a half-a-dozen familiar bodies the other side of the sandbank. This morning, there’s a huge wide strip of sand between the shingle and the sea, in one corner a handful of bucket-made sandcastles, washed down by the rain. The weekend must have been warmer than this.

Getting into the sea at very low tide today needs no thought or planning. A small foot splash and then ankle depth, ankle depth, ankle, ankle, knee, waist, knee, waist followed by a few feet of delight in being able to swim before hitting the sand again, climbing upwards, ankle, ankle, knee, and down the other side of the sandbank for pretend swimming, where you can stop at any time, stand up and find you’re actually only waist deep.

The water feels cold this morning, probably because our skin is chilled by the wind every time we stand up, which we do all the time at this tide. There are small waves everywhere and the water is flicked up into into little pointed scales. If you’re head above the water and look around you at the endless sea, it’s like being surrounded by a limitless rough and ancient reptile.

‘It’s like we’ve all got into a Tardis and been transported back to March,’ says Professor Peru to all-round agreement.

The only positive thing about the wind, in my opinion, is that it blew the scent of kittiwake poo out to sea, so that we weren’t overwhelmed by it. The kittiwakes are settled on the old rig now in perfectly-spaced nests, babies doubtless safely tucked, no sign of nappies.

Bikini, who was so far from the group and so far out I had started to worry, reappears. We agree to head back.

Ankle depth then knee depth, knee depth and, without any of us noticing, an atypically large wave pours itself over the sandbank and slaps us hard on the bottoms. It’s a Carry On moment but at least no one falls.

A brief descent to shoulder depth, the relief of a swim and then a straight-ish rise across the undersea shingle. 

We tread carefully and make our way out of the sea, back to the thin, happily clear and pebbled shoreline.

As we lope off a small glimmer of sun breaks through the cloud. The sea cabbage has finished flowering.

I have an Instagram account called @NorthSeaFanClub. I post videos of the sea each time I swim.