Beach Walker – Chapter 8

Fears and Desires

Leonard watched in silence as I poured our coffees and set them down on the kitchen table. It was mid-August now, damp and cold. Rain scoured the window and I was selfishly glad we were at my cosy little house, so that I didn’t have to go anywhere in this.

‘If you don’t mind my sayin’ …’ he began, then broke off. It was one of his more irritating habits.

‘Yes?’

‘You seem scared of a lot of things, Grace.’

We’d just been talking about the extraordinary fact that I’d been living in Ocean Grove for ten months now and hadn’t been for a swim in the sea – not a proper swim, just the occasional splash around in the surf. Yet I was a fair swimmer. I could easily manage twenty laps in an Olympic-sized pool, alternating freestyle and breast-stroke. I loved being in the water and I loved the beach. So what was up?

In the wide open sea, as soon as I was out of my depth, fear constricted my lungs and threatened to cramp my limbs. I imagined a terrifying death in the jaws of a marine predator, or sinking exhausted beneath the waves as I fought for a last gulp of air …

‘I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?’

‘I could get swept out to sea by a rip, eaten by a shark, stung by a stingray. I could get a cramp and drown, I could …’

‘Yeah, but …’ He counted on his fingers. ‘Rip – most of them end within a k of the shore. Keep calm, swim out the side and return to the beach. No biggie for a strong swimmer. Shark – we’re not even on their menu, really. Stingray – you’re more likely to step on one in the shallows on one of your walks. Cramp – hurts but hardly ever incapacitates unless you panic, and human bodies have positive buoyancy in salt water.’

‘That’s all very well, but surfers and swimmers do get taken by sharks, and …’

‘Rarely. More get mown down crossing the road to the beach.’

‘“Rarely” means it still happens.’

‘Shit happens, Grace. And the worst shit that can happen – it will happen. You’re gonna die. I’m gonna die. We’re all gonna fucken die – ’scuse my language. If you live your entire life worrying about an end you can’t help – ain’t that a life wasted?’

‘Maybe, but –’

‘You’re missing out, lady. Tell you what: we’ll go swimming together. I’ll look after you. Then, when you’re ready, I’ll teach you to snorkel – ’kay?’

‘Whoa, there! One step at a time …’

‘Like I said: when you’re ready. Only when you’re ready. But believe me – you’re gonna love it. Trust me, I’m a marine fricken biologist.’ He grinned that ugly, beautiful, snaggle-toothed grin.

Lord, how I miss that grin.

I was all for leaving the Sea Swim Project until the warm summer weather, but Leonard wasn’t having it.

‘Nah,’ he wagged his finger. ‘The longer we leave it, the more wound up you’ll get and the more excuses you’ll find to wriggle out of it.’

‘There’s no way I’m going in the water now, matey boy. It’s fucking freezing!’

I don’t normally swear; must be the company I’ve been keeping.

‘Wetsuit,’ he said. As if that trumped all my concerns and no further argument were possible.

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So I bought a wetsuit.

‘What thickness?’ asked the sales assistant in the surf shop. ‘Tessa’, according to her badge. Tessa was blonde, pretty and about a third of my age.

Ah. I’d stumbled at the first hurdle: a wetsuit was a wetsuit, wasn’t it? One of those neoprene things that would squidge my bulges back where they belonged and make me look like a sleek marine mammal. And above all, keep me warm in chilly Bass Strait in the middle of winter. Thicker was probably better.

‘I’m not sure. Extra thick?’ I said hopefully.

It was at this point, if not before, that Tessa realised she was going to work hard for her wages this morning.

‘Cool. What will you be using it for?’

‘To go in the sea.’

‘Scuba, snorkelling, swimming, surfing,’ she enumerated patiently, ‘… paddleboarding, kayaking, kitesurfing …’

‘Ah. Swimming. Maybe snorkelling later.’ Kitesurfing, Tessa? Really?

‘Sweet … Where will you be swimming and snorkelling?’

‘Here.’ I waved in the general direction of the sea. Or possibly the car park: my sense of direction has always been a little hazy.

‘No worries. What time of year?’

‘Uh, not sure. My friend wants to take me now. This week.’

Was that a wince of sympathy?

‘Okay … so the water temperature is pretty low right now. About twelve or thirteen. You want a full wetty. Four-three, or three-two?’ She looked enquiringly at me. I looked blankly back.

‘You should try this openwater suit.’ She held it up against me. A rubbery thing like a deboned human.

‘These tri suits are good for swimmers – plenty of flexibility in the stroke but the thermal layer will keep you warm …’

A quick rummage, and Tessa had found me some options. More rubbery things in plain black, black-and-grey – and one with arms in that vagina pink that women are supposed to like.

‘Changing rooms are just over there.’

It’s at times like these that I envy men their tubular body shape. No nonsense. Straight up-and-down. With the addition of a spectacular beer dome for some older gents, it’s true.

For a mature woman, squishing herself into a stubbornly resisting neoprene sheath in a cramped cubicle in an overheated shop is a trial bordering on cruel and unusual punishment. My curves are a lot curvier than they were when I was Tessa’s age and my joints less able to perform contortions. By the time I’d got the first ‘wetty’ on, I was sweaty and flustered. I opened the cubicle door, poked my head out and called Tessa over. No way was I going to step out into the middle of the shop looking like this.

‘Is it supposed to be this tight?’ I felt like a Bunnings sausage, about to split my neoprene skin. I suspected that my limbs would twang back into place if I tried to flex them.

‘It wants to be snug,’ offered Tessa doubtfully, surveying my bulges.

At length, I was kitted out with wetsuit (no vagina pink for me, thank you), thermal hood, gloves, booties, ear plugs and a new mirrored ‘anti-fog’ pair of goggles for good measure.

‘Too easy!’ said Tessa, perhaps not quite as chirpy as she’d been forty minutes earlier, as she waved me out the door with my purchases. I can only hope that she got a good commission on the sale, poor girl.

‘Have fun!’ she called after me.

Hmm.

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Next week in Beach Walker:

Chapter 9: Hot and Bothered

Grace finds herself overdressed for the occasion of her first open-water swim.