29th April 2024

A summer swim if it hadn’t been so cold

The road was finished in an eggshell glaze, residue of last night’s rain. Tiny puddles looked as if they had been accidentally spilled by the verge side and clear beads of moisture were threaded on the tall stems of grasses.

On the fields, the fresh wheat was glossy, sprayed with moisture in a photoshoot, the invasive neon oil seed rape stretched its head up too, ‘me, me, me, I’m the brightest, I’m the one that’s most like this sun.’

The sun had high glossed the sea too. When I had trudged to the top of the shingle bank, the water was rippling, shiny and rushing from right to left as if late for a date in Dunwich.

The tide was low, just half an hour off full low tide and the sandbank looked like someone had dropped a huge scoop of ice cream in the sea and it had washed its way across the seascape.

I was late and already there were bodies in the water. Three or four swimming around in the lagoon between the shore and the sandbank; silhouettes clambering over the bank itself and another small handful in the waves beyond.

There was a wide speckled sand strip before the diddy little waved shoreline. It looked lovely, although it already bore the odd footprint and paw print. The sort of speckled sandstrip that makes me want to pause and examine the speckles, interesting stones, tangles of old net, seaweed, shells.

It was a summer sea view and it would have been a slow summer swim day if it hadn’t been so April cold. The flag was full out, with an eighteen mph strong south south westerly, with stiffer gusts. It was better than a north wind of course, but at eleven degrees on the beach, it wasn’t the weather for hanging around in your swimming kit searching out interesting stones.

The shoreline couldn’t have been friendlier, tiny little rolling flat waves to step on and wade out into the lagoon between the shoreline and the sandbank. The lagoon is deep enough to swim in, just about full body height at this tide. To me, the water felt cold. Somewhere between eight and nine degrees. No summer swim despite the sun’s best effort.

Up close, the sandbank was frothy and frilly, covered by wave after wave of tiny rollers which broke on the top and spilled themselves over the edge. They looked delightful, an ankle-deep bubbling entertainment. The bank is a lovely place to be but not in the wind. There’s nowhere to hide from the breeze, no water deep enough to submerge yourself and shield your shoulders.

Four bodies were on the far side in the place that is the beginning of the rest of the North Sea. Sometimes, the water is deep and precarious; huge, unbounded waves that could take you anywhere. Not this morning. The far side of the sandbank sloped down, making an angled edge that stretched a long way. Most of the waves were waist height and fairly predictable.

I turned pretty quickly, clambered up and over as fast as possible to get out of the wind and submerged myself back in the deeper water. A little swim towards shore then out.

The beach was windy and walking up over the strip of sand, the tightly-packed row of robes, towels and dry clothes looked like a colourful, curated encampment.

The kittiwakes were noisy, mucking about, circling the old rig, fishing and nesting in the blustery sunshine.