MG
I'm feeling strangely chilled and am secretly relieved when I decide not to force myself into swimming on this blustery day (why do I find it so much more of an effort in August than January?!). But then the sun comes out – SW quashes my whining – and of course it turns out to be one of our top three swims of the summer. We three – Mascot back on board after a few weeks of summer absence – meet in the car park at West Bay where SW reveals he has not only snuck out of a party for this swim and intends to sneak back in before his absence is noted – but has also failed to bring any of his stuff and will be forced to swim in his underwear. Secretly, I appreciate this twist in the story. We're upping the anti from hardcore winter swimmers whatever the weather, to guerrilla swimmers not letting convention or circumstance stand in our way (or where we always like this? Snow swim?!).
Skies have cleared and we abort our prancing in a show of strength, SW plunges into a breaking wave and I follow swiftly. We swim out and look back at the cliffs on which the light is staggering. Just for these ten minutes they flame in the dying sun. We rhapsodise as usual about Dorset . It's a brief swim but perfect. SW tries the cormorants approach to drying (wings outstretched) but eventually succumbs to the loan of my sandpaper towel. Enlivened and refreshed, even The Mascot does some dancing and prancing before disappearing to eat a fisherman's sandwiches.
SW returns to the party too buoyed up to remain undercover and flashes photographs of the golden beach to all. And with blackberries appearing in the hedgerows, the true swimming season is a fast approaching cloud of dust on the horizon. Good news.
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