I last took to the water back at the end of October 2018, in the slightly chilly waters of Devon. This year's first swim happened later than I've ever swum before; I'm usually in sometime in April or at least the beginning of May, but for some reason this year, I just didn't get my act together.
It was a warm day, with a bustling breeze, and as is often the case, although inland there were clear blue skies, down on the south coast, there was a slight haze, as if someone was gently blowing smoke across the sun. As usual, the beach was busier just by the car park, but a ten minute walk along the path and we had an entire stretch to ourselves. The tide was out at it's furthest point and was on the turn. the beach stretched out before me like a lunar landscape, ripples of white sand trailing like dancing ribbons between the groynes. I took off my shoes and picked my way across the pebbles, then onto the sand, heading for the nearest tidal pool. Warm and soft. Hard, compact sand. Gently the waves picked at my toes, scaling my foot with each successive roll. Breathe. Ions. Happiness.
I lay on the sand for a while, just watching the waves curling in on themselves, the breeze creating a lace-edged trim as each wave hit the sand. No putting it off any longer and worried that the cold water would defeat me, I just catapulted myself into the water, running into the ankle-high waves, and nearly tripping over, hopping and stuttering over unseen rocks beneath the surface. It wasn't quite the elegant entrance I'd been dreaming of!!! Moving along the beach I found a rock free patch and once I was knee high, I just dunked myself in. It was cold, but not that breath holding, ouch inducing cold that usually marks my first swim of the year. I struck out for the horizon, turning after a few strokes to look back at the beach. Empty apart from a dog walker. Lying on my back, my feet to the sky, I watched the light bounce and careen off the breaking waves. Above, a lone seagull called and soared, curious as to what was happening below. I can lie floating quite happily for some time, but the tips of my fingers began to go numb, so I struck out for the shore. I'm always sad to walk away from a swim, the antidote of course, is to plan the next one. The endorphin high from a wild open water swim is addictive. The only cure is more of the same.
