The Sea, The Sea

Before I start this latest post, I just want to say that I am turning my Substack into a paid newsletter. As I’ve said before, writing for a living is becoming increasingly hard. So from now on, it’ll cost £3 a month to subscribe. For that you’ll get every post. There will be the odd free one. Or you can stump up £30 for a year. Either way, I hope you’ll stick around. Now, onwards…

48 hours I waited. When we arrived at the coast, a westerly had blown in, turning the waves turbid, roiling into the shingle bank, the boom and hiss audible hundreds of metres inland. On that first day, my friend Alex and I sat on the beach and watched as groups of swimmers placed tentative feet into the spume and dove under the waves. Both of us authors of swimming books, we eyed them with fear as they broke through the first set and were lifted and dropped by the unstoppable sea. Years ago, we would both have done the same. Now, my understanding and respect are greater.

As each swimmer emerged, they were held down and rolled back onto the safety of the beach as the tide moved inexorably inwards. Our boys chased seagulls and sat on the pebbles as we fussed about those who had braved the conditions. I was no longer one of them.

Buy me a coffee

When the time came at last, the wind had swung north, a whisper from the South Downs. I walked to the spot that was once my usual, next to the groyne which slides into Hove Beach by The Meeting Place Cafe. For a decade I swam here through the seasons, mostly before work. The salt on my skin, the chill across my chest, under gunmetal skies or punishing summer sun, was as much part of my day as the school run or making coffee. It was such a part of me that the routine is a muscle memory. The steps from the flat to the main road, where to place my towel, the way to enter the water sideways to shoulder any rising waves.