Watching and waiting

25th November 2024

The Friday sun is golden, a fresh autumn goose egg broken onto a pink-patterned plate, black skeleton trees reaching up making a Japanese painting against the horizon.

We have hope. Reports are that Storm Bert is heading for the hills, it’s around five degrees now but there are rumours of a doubling in temperature over the weekend. Please can we swim soon? It’s the first day for a while that I’ve believed it could be possible.

For at least a week, the morning weather has been so fierce, the thought of getting into the sea has been out of the question. Unless you walk a dog and have an urge to take a video with which to horrify beach swimming pals via Whattsapp, it’s been easier to have a coffee.

Aches niggle, joints complain of the cold, irritations creep in. There’s something about getting into a cold sea that re-sets mood. Perhaps it’s the distraction, the change of state? When it’s not part of my life, I end up not wanting even to talk about it.

It’s nine days since I’ve swum in the sea. Nine days.

I last swam on the 20th November. There was a comically blowy weekend spent with Storm Bert in North Norfolk and nada so far following that.

When I don’t swim in the cold sea, two things happen. By the way, please don’t suggest a cold shower or a cold bath instead. They’re horrific. YOU have a cold shower and write to me about it.

First thing, missing is miserable. It’s like being torn apart from a loved one. A week emotionally morphs into a month. Without reliable reference, you yearn yet you can’t actually remember the finer details of your beloved’s face. I’ve tried reading my own old blogs. Just makes me jealous and wish that I’d paid more attention to editing.

Second thing. The thought of swimming in the cold North Sea becomes completely ridiculous. In a pre-seven am cold, dark bedroom, the thought of getting into a November sea seems absurd. Who of right mind would do that? Being that cold would be unbearable?

Added to the off-putting thought of being cold is the risk of being caught by a wave and thrown onto a cold hard beach, crusted in a gritty mix of fine shingle and sand.

When we arrive, the view at the beach is jaw-droppingly wonderful. The sun, which has raised its head over the horizon is still deep goose-egg yellow. It’s runny, spreading a rich and delicious gold just above the waterline.

Above is endless blue sky decorated with fine wisps of high cirrus cloud and contrails. Lower tiny puffy cumulus provide decoration.

The North Sea looks enormous. At eight, it’s an hour before the first high tide. The water is deep and a dark unfathomable grey, an ancient celtic slate.

At the waterline are happy bobble hats rolling in the splash as Puck gets to his feet in the face of a head-hight on coming wave, Bikini stands next to him. They step forward they step back. None of them have swum.

The view of the sea is magnificent. The sea breath from the south is delicious. Someone spots a seal. Yet again, it’s too rough to swim.

Perhaps next week, the relics of the storms will finally have washed by?

A handful of small black geese enter stage left, skimming the surface of the sea. They rise, as if to check out the population on the old rig, lose their formation in the wind, descend, get themselves back in line just above the water line and exit, heading south.

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