West Bay, Wednesday 3rd November, 2.30pm

A swim so good it gets 2 posts...

Weather terrible. Mild enough but grey and windy. Not a good sign for swimming in west dorset but obsessions don’t bend to the conditions. I meet MG at West Bay determined to swim whatever the sea throws at us.  The bar has re-opened and MG has hinted at a special treat all the way from London… Comparing fleece linings (yes, we can be that sad), we wander towards the winter swimming spot in the hope that the waves may be a little smaller there. A large group of geography students are studying beach re-profiling but the lower beach is deserted. The westerly cliffs are lost in mist and a light rain is falling. The waves are huge. They crash at the shore sending foam and spray for 10s of meters.

Before I can think too much I change. MG is not very sure so I volunteer to test the waters as long as she mans the emergency mobile. Infuriatingly the students have stopped just above where we hoped to swim so I was to have a large audience. At the shore the waves become dauntingly massive, some over 8 ft, the rest as tall as me. They crash a few feet in front of my face and pummel me with spray and foam. I have to brace my legs to stay up right. I can now hear my audience making ‘will he wont he’ noises. I daren’t look back.  After a few minutes comes the hoped for lull in the large waves and I am in before I miss my chance. Swimming rapidly away from the wave breaking point the sea envelopes me, its roar in my ears. I feel safe. I feel at home. I bob up and down on the waters but know not to go too far and decide to test getting out before I get cold or tired. Swimming back with the waves is quick and easy. Finding the sea bed is more troublesome, land underfoot being at wave break. I float just behind the waves waiting for a small one to come in on.  My chance comes quickly but is followed by a monster and I have to run to get out of the water before I am sucked back and crushed.

On dry land I am elated. MG points out the sea has now calmed and when I turn she is right. I have to go in again. A run and a dive and I am under. By the time I surface, MG is running into the water. A changing time record?  Almost as soon as she is in the huge waves return so we stay close to the shore. A wave takes me up and drops me on the beach, almost elegantly. Just as I am feeling impressed by this stunt I turn in time to see an 8 footer. MG has dived under it but I am right in its path. I am hit with its full force and am sent headlong into the washing machine. I surface, disorientated, trunks full of gravel but with enough wherewithal to run out of the sea before being hit again. The wash-back from the waves does feel strong but not frighteningly so. I watch MG going up and down or under huge waves. I sense she is ready to come out but is waiting for the large waves to subside. I wait on the shore rather than going back under just in case a rescue mission is needed. I am unduly worried and MG comes in on the next smallish wave although she grabs my hand and I pull her out of the undertow before another wave can come along.

We think we now know our wave limits. Although it did not feel dangerous and getting in and out was fine it was definitely as rough as we would risk. And we absolutely deserved our open bar and bar snacks. Amazing raspberry brownies washed down with vanilla camp mocha (better than it sounds, honest). Driving back home, I have seaweed in my hair and sand in my eye, I am happy.

SW


 And from a different view point.....

MG

Wednesday 3^rd November West Bay 2.30

I had to make a very brief foray into The City yesterday for a work event, where the duality of my existence as illicit wild swimmer and socialising worker bee suddenly overwhelmed me with confusion, the only relief of which was to be found in the bottom of several glasses of wine. Consequently it is not without effort that I peel myself from my cocoon and trickle down the railway line the following morning, to where SW has alerted me that a perfect swimming day has dawned at home.

Our definition of "a perfect swimming day" seems to differ – gazing out of the train window with bloodshot eyes, I can see the elms whipping to and fro in the wind and past Salisbury, the skies darken. However, to the beach we must, and at 2.30 I am there, Mascot, Mascottini and special guest star, The Hairy Aunt, in tow. I am immediately certain that today is a non-swimming day. White horses are plunging, rearing and collapsing with resounding crashes, and the muddy waves are anything but attractive, especially under and amidst the grey skies and gusting wind. SW is given a warm welcome (and near blinding) by the Mascot and Mascottini, while the Hairy Aunt looks on in bemusement, never having been a part of team alpha before. We decide to check out The Winter Bathing Spot, a corner by the harbour which is sheltered by the walls and thusly is usually a bit calmer. It IS calmer, but I am still unconvinced. SW bravely volunteers to test the water; I decide that if he drowns, I won't swim today. As SW begins the painful peeling off of layers and anxious dash seawards, an entire minibus of GCSE Geography fieldwork students appear on the amphitheatre effect shingle bank above us, and accompany his progress with wolf whistles, sympathising groans and eventual cheers as he vanishes (the possibility of giving up rendered impossible by his audience as I well realise) from sight into the raging torrent. The dogs and I watch, hearts in mouths, as the tiny dot of him appears and disappears in the peaks and troughs, the waves rearing 8 feet high, dwarfing him in their shadow.

It is with great relief that we see him emerge in one piece, and cover him with praise.

As he puts down his towel, I glance seaward and comment that now is a much quieter moment where the sea is almost calm. In a blur, SW has turned and dashed back in, and without any consideration, I have pulled off my 15 layers in one fluid movement (bikini already on below) and covered the ground to the water in literally 4 seconds. SW does a double take and shouts "stay in the shallows!" as I suddenly appear and throw myself in. For 10 blissful seconds I'm swimming (the water quite insanely warm, when is it going to get cold again?) and all is right with the world. And then, of course, like the dreaded monsters of the deep, the waves appear from nowhere. I'm tossed high up where I get a bird's eye view of wave after wave after wave coming in and no possibly break where I'll be able to make the 4 strokes in without being smashed. As I disappear into the valley and look up at a vast wall of water towering above me, I let out a squawk and reflect on a life well lived. At least I will die hung-over. Actually poetic licence aside (calm yourselves support team) I'm beyond the break point, so I'm actually in no real danger – I'm avoiding the real risk of being smashed and churned, and then smashed again.

SW, as I discover later, is not so lucky, which thank God I'm in no position to notice – my only solace at this point is that SW will save me. On fact, he's mid-washing machine cycle, head over heels in the surf. The Heroes are floundering, the end is nigh. And then, a calm! I swim as hard as I can, make it to the shallows, extend an arm to SW who is now managing to remain upright, and am hauled me up the bank. We stand, panting, speechless, but BLAZING with success. Adrenaline is tearing through me as I collapse on to my towel.

Never have brownies and SW'A special mocha-mix  been so well deserved, and we huddle over our cups agreeing, half jokingly, that this is probably as rough as we should go. We take our time in recovery, basking in success and drying our wings in the sun (like this cormorant) which has made a congratulatory appearance.

Driving home, I can't stop laughing and realise that my hangover has gone, but I'm drunk again – hair of the mascot not alcohol, but sea water, near death and pure, unadulterated adrenaline.