There be dragons

Friday 15th November 2024

‘It sounds like a dragon, listen, like a dragon roaring.’ The cloud is back, but not oppressive, high ink-stained cotton holding the air temperature to around eight degrees.

Friday morning looks dull, listless, autumn colours dimmed. Even the orange leaves scattered on tarmac, the colour of discarded Christmas tangerine rind, are not worth writing home about.

The Canadian and I are loping from the carpark on to the beach, robes, hats, bags weighing down shoulders (me), bags carefully balanced between hands (her). Winter kit. A dragon is roaring.

There is a peculiar sound made by a large mass of sea water landing on shingle from height. When the sea is out of sight, the roar overpowers, it sounds as if a hurricane-force storm has unexpectedly hit the coast filling the beach with an angry noise that heralds danger.

When the Canadian and I reach the top of the shingle bank, the deep slate North Sea looks smooth, rhythmically heaving, slow sea dragon breaths bringing a gentle sequence of large slow waves. The dragon is snoozing.

He’s a sleepy dragon, a benign dragon, happily napping just below the surface of the water. Only when his breath reaches the shoreline does it blow up the waves that hit the beach. Dragon snore.

Half the gang is already in the sea, heads bobbing between what look like huge rollers and an angry edge. Heads rise up, heads sink down, swim away from the snoring, rise up again.

We wait for a smooth part, when the sea dragon is breathing in. Then we’re in the sea.

Thirteen degree water feels cold when it’s deep. We’re an hour before the first high tide. Proper submersion. I make a noise, get used to it, kind of. Swim about constantly keeping an eye out for the remnants of the swell that’s travelled right round the coast from the real storms that landed in the North West.

That’s where this dragon started his journey, travelling up and over the north county, down to our east. No wonder he needs a nap.

We’re lucky to have only the tail end of his journey. A happy swim day. The sun lifts an edge of the thick cotton cloud and momentarily peeps out of the horizon. Keeping an eye out for dragons and staying cosily under cover until they’re gone.

Time your exit is the theme of the morning. Don’t get knocked over by a wave coming in behind you but don’t get pulled back when the wave retreats. You must have dragon energy on your side.

Wait, wait, go for it. No! Wait and try again.

In turn swimmers get out of the sea and don’t get knocked over. No one crawls out on their knees, not even me.

There is only one ‘almost’, a titchy tiny ‘almost’. Professor Peru has made it, he’s made it, another step and he’s made it, he’s very nearly made it when the back pull from a large wave wobbles him on the soft landing sand and suddenly (you should have seen the look on his face) he’s very much probably not made a safe landing after all.

But it’s a happy swim day and he’s caught and steadied by grinning Rupert’s Mum and the Canadian in flight. He’s made it! Grins too.

We did it. The beach is cold but the wind is gentle. There’s no uncomfortable urgency. The row of swimmers changing looks like a colourful encampment, towels and dry clothes and wet bags, gloves, socks, heaps of sea swim stuff.

Two visiting dogs, taking a friendly bobble hat neighbour for their morning beach walk, greet Bikini with a loving Happy Birthday and go on to do their best to sniff out and snaffle any treats that might once have been in Puck’s bag.

It feels as if we linger today, stretching the period of escape from the real world for another moment and another moment until at last even this benign November beach begins to feel cold.

The dragon roars.

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