Since my inaugural swim in the sea a couple of weeks ago I have gone each weekend morning, braving chilly winds and crashing waves to use my swimming style which is so reminiscent of the Olympians seen over recent days, in that my arms flail like a boxer’s and my legs move in that jerky fashion used in the Walking.
Today is the first day of my two-week holidays (I’m not counting Saturday or yesterday, I’d have been off anyway) and I have decided that I will swim on each of the next fourteen mornings too.
I woke at 7.30 this morning, thought “oh, time to go swimming” and then realised that what had woken me that early was the sound of the rain on the roof. I lay there disappointed for a few seconds and then thought of a plan.
To get to the sea I park in the South Beach Car Park and walk through a short tunnel under the railway line to get to the beach. I could leave my clothes in the car, dash back for them after the swim, and dry and dress myself in the tunnel.
I drove down, undressed in the car and ran down the beach in driving rain. I plunged into the sea, briefly made its choppiness even choppier, and came back out. The rain had stopped.
There were now hailstones instead.
I trudged back up the beach feeling as if I was being whipped (or at least what I imagine that feels like, I’m not into that sort of thing), took my clothes and dried myself, as I had planned, in the tunnel.
There is a footpath beside the tunnel and what I had forgotten is that this is Monday. Commuter after commuter on their way to the station passed the tunnel and stared at me from under their umbrellas. I am well used to being looked at as if I’m a lunatic, it happens a lot when you have teenage kids, but I have rarely received the look so often from so many people in so short a space of time.
There are thunderstorms forecast for tomorrow. I might just skip a day.