Not quite first light, but early. The estimated population of 2,276 have yet to venture into the open, save those with early jobs and the walkers of dogs. I walk across the high street as delivery drivers deposit their goods at the boutiques and the cafes prepare for their breakfast customers. The buildings shelter me from the sea breeze and the occasional squawk of a sea bird rings out overhead – without them, at this point in the morning, this street could be that of any chichi market town. A few steps through an archway leads me to Crag Path and the panorama of the North Sea opens like a Rothko canvas: a horizontal triptych of stone, water and sky. The rising sun hangs low in the eastern sky and is filtered by thin clouds, the names of which a nephologist would know but I do not. Stepping over the wall and onto the shingle, my gait shifts from firm to laboured as my feet sink into the pebbles that make up the beach; hundreds of thousands of tonnes spreading out to the left and right. The terns and gulls squawk more frequently and play their part in the natural soundscape that I imagine dear old Benjy Britt woke up to each morning. The shingle shifts gradient rapidly as it nears the water; and the sea and pebbles meet with that exquisite ripping sound as the waves, having travelled for thousands of miles to meet me here, foam gently at the shore. The sound sort of reminds me of Indys barking against pool coping; another sound that I adore, but for different reasons.
I deposit my towels, flask of sweetened mint tea, clothes and (unbranded) changing robe on the pebbles. I pull protective neoprene sheaths onto my hands and feet – the sun may be shining and spring claims to be in the air, but no-one has mentioned this to the sea. I step into the water in my tried and tested manner – up to the waist, forearms submerged; quickly remembering that I’m in a large body of water as the waves’ action changes the depth around me, and the familiar briny flavour of spray flecks my mouth. I maintain my position for a few more moments, sensing the currents moving around me: I exhale and submerge my body to the neck, prompting the inhalation which accompanies cold water; my feet push off the seabed, and I’m swimming in the sea, ‘no banging on this glass for me…’
What do drinking coffee and swimming have in common? I can’t really remember not doing either. It’s difficult to recall what came first – paddling in the sea or flapping about with waterwings in the pool, but they probably coincide. The memories one holds of early childhood – snatches of intense vividness, unlocated in a specific time – often feature water; on one occasion, almost out of my depth with two other children as we wade across a sandspit at high tide yet feeling calmly in control and at ease in my environment (where were the grown-ups? I have no idea). On (thankfully few) later occasions I will find myself in mortal fear in the water; a very small organism in a planet-wide pond.
Writing this brings memories to the fore. I had a minor obsession in infancy with David Wilkie; I guess that his Olympic gold was seen as something of a triumph for my home country, and his presence on television before the Saturday cartoons probably had something to do with it. In an effort to ensure I wore sunscreen, my family would refer to the product as ‘David Wilkie cream’ to ensure I slathered the stuff on. Unusual? Perhaps, but I also had to be told that mince and potatoes was Pedigree Chum for a while in order for me to eat, such was the appeal of ‘solid nourishment’. I have hazy memories of practicing diving into the bathtub as an infant a la Professor Splash (causing some amount of flooding in the room below, apparently) and tying balloons onto my back as makeshift aqualungs (don’t rely on these in a real sub-aqua situation, kids). Although I can’t recall a single episode of the show clearly, I’m pretty sure that The Man From Atlantis had something to do with it too; and an early reading of Crisis on Conshelf 10 had me wanting to become a gillman. Sci-fi? Water? Sign me up!
I don’t train for swimming. I don’t set any challenges that really matter in terms of endurance or distance; and after setting one challenge to myself a few years back I don’t think I’ll do so again. With all that being so, why swim? Why write about it on a website to do with massage?
Every type of ‘sporting’ activity I’ve ever done is fundamentally playtime for me. If I improve my health in the process, then great; if it encourages me to address my wellbeing in constructive ways, then that’s great too but it’s incidental. Climbing, dancing, skateboarding – all of these involve some kind of struggle with gravity in some way. Water doesn’t. It’s like flying in thick air, as Birdy said. I wonder if learning to swim in salt water, with all of its added buoyancy, shaped this feeling. I imagine that it did; I recall swimming out of my depth so that I could turn somersaults and spins under the water without the concern of hitting the ground. A big wet gymnasium; a zero-G room on Earth.
