Getting the best of a mean sea

March 11th 2024

Pale grey damp Monday morning, misted like a dirty lens. Near is dulled and far is partially invisible. Only daffodils show, not as bright as they might, pretty yellow road-side markings randomly spaced in the verge.

There were only three of us, four if you count the four-legged lovely. Rupert bounced and Rupert’s Mum took him and her chest infection for a walk. It was me and the Canadian. Together we’d be fine, worst came to the worst, we’d yank the other out.

The first sight of the sea is wonderful but this morning it was no more attractive than the land. From the beach, particularly from a few yards back, the water looked shallow, fast waves like spiky grey ripples. Little more than irritating. I was slightly concerned that the low water might sting my calves.

On the beach, we had eight degrees but it was sharpened by a northerly of around fourteen mph. Not a wind that anyone would want to hang around in. Not on the east coast in March.

Although the tide looked pretty low from the shore, low tide had in fact been at six thirty am. The sea had had more than an hour to rise, pulling its massive energy up and out, sending waves into the wind.

The two of us agreed that we’d give it a go. I told her that I’d just have a dip, and that it would actually be quite straightforward as it was so low.

When we got to the shoreline, the sea wasn’t half as shallow as it had looked from a distance. The Canadian, who by this point had got the glint in her eye, offered me her hand. I was sure I’d pull her over and declined. We got in, side-on to the first waist-height wave, jumping onto the next taller one then swimming, jumping, swimming, almost immediately out of foot reach.

It was a mean sea. Fast waves coming at us needing to be jumped, too tall to see the one next in the queue. As soon as we had the chance to turn our heads, we could see that the tide had already pulled us further out than we had intended to be.

This morning, the water temperature is seven point six degrees, I thought it might have been worse having been churned up by the weekend high winds. Seven point six, once you’re conditioned by a winter of swimming, feels not too bad, until you’re in for longer than you intended.

We turned towards shore, big strokes, watching to keep ahead of the oncoming waves. If they caught up with us, we paused to make sure we went over them and not the other way round.

We reach the shore, thirty yards south of our clothes. We plan our exit between waves. I trip with the first and then am drenched by another and another. It’s not the first time. I’ve learned to take very full breaths and use the waves to move me forward onto the beach rather than pull me back.

The Canadian waits for me hand held out after her elegant exit. I’m still wary of pulling her over but after the fourth wave, I’m far enough out to hold on.

I’m panting a bit and feeling the cold by the time that the three of us and Rupert walk back to the car park. It was a mean and nasty sea but we did it. Wouldn’t have done it alone. The Canadian beams. Adrenaline and endorphins enough to counter another Monday.

Cormorants are fishing, the gorse is out, daffodil-yellow against the grey.