Janet Gogerty's Blog: Sandscript - Posts Tagged "swimming"

'The Water's Lovely' is the title of the Ruth Rendell paperback I have been reading at our beach hut - you can read my review here on Goodreads. An appropriate title, though the story is about a drowning in the bath.
The only water some beach hut owners come into contact with is that which comes out of the stand pipe to fill their kettles. For myself and others one of the benefits of a beach hut is a handy changing room for sea swimming. My first swim of the year in May was at 11 degrees, yesterday the sea temperature had gone up to 16 degrees. It is not easy wading into the cold sea, but the thought of the beach hut shelter and kettle boiling for a hot drink helps boost morale.
So why do it? People go in The Solent all year round, much to the entertainment of onlookers and photographers. In wet suits they surf, body board, kite surf out to the horizon or power through the waves freestyle as if in practice for a channel crossing. Every Sunday morning at Boscombe Pier, from October to April, the Bournemouth Spartans, aged ten to ninety, extol the healthy virtues of winter sea swimming. At least they enjoy the benefit of warm showers; on other mornings on any stretch of the beach you may see a solitary bike propped up with a pile of clothes on the saddle and a towel on the handlebars. A swimmer will emerge for a quick salty rub down, then jump on his or her bike. I have seen an elderly, very arthritic man regularly hobble down to the water's edge with a human and dog companion and plunge in.
I don't possess any equipment except a swimming costume. I swim parallel to the shore, within my depth, east to the next groyne, pain turning to numbness. As I turn around, the warm glow has usually arrived and if the afternoon sun is shining in my face it is exhilarating; I know why I am doing it and the water is lovely.
Cold freshwater shower on the promenade, brisk walk up to the beach hut. If it is sunny I sit and soak up the warmth. If the sun has disappeared behind black clouds and a stiff breeze blown up, then I wrap up with plenty of layers and enjoy my coffee. Either way, it is time to scribble some more of my novel, I have usually planned another scene while in the sea.
It is a beach hut, not a beach house; a calor gas ring, enough room for folding chairs, cupboards, shelves and hooks. A tiny wooden shed; we own the wood, the council owns the square of concrete it sits on, but it is large enough for its purpose and affords a great view of the Isle of Wight and The Purbecks. For a taste of the seaside visit my website.

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Do you dare to bare? The innocent pleasures of swimming naked in the sea or allowing the sun to reach every pore of your body are not easily achieved, unless you own a private beach or know of a secluded cove. Hence the popularity or otherwise of nudist beaches.
Our nearest naturist beach is the delightfully natural Studland Beach on the Isle of Purbeck. Owned now by the National Trust it is wonderfully free of wooden breakers, sea walls and promenades. At Knoll Beach there are car parks, toilets and café, but leave these behind and there is just heathland petering out into dunes and white sand meeting the clear sea.
Perhaps the tradition of discarding clothes here grew up from the days when the beach was a secluded, remote part of a private estate. Now it is a favourite destination for the chattering classes, families and dog walkers. The walk from Shell Bay, where the chain ferry arrives from Sandbanks, along the shore to Knoll Beach and further, is a great way to enjoy fresh air, scenery and exercise. It is the middle section of this beach which is the naturist beach, a blue warning sign at either end, the only demarcation.
If you hope to see beautiful bodies, you will probably be disappointed, except perhaps on the hottest days. A couple of weeks ago we were at Knoll Beach car park on a chilly cloudy day and saw a revoltingly obese ‘older’ man attired in lime green swimming shorts. His wife (we assumed) was slapping sun cream on his back, I wondered that she would let him out in public uncovered! But she obviously did not intend to be seen in public with him. He marched off alone towards the beach. We could not help but follow him in our stroll along the shoreline. As soon as he stepped past the sign - 'Naturists may be seen beyond this point'- he bent over, whipped off his shorts and continued to stride out.
We have occasionally visited the naturist beach on a hot day and attempted to join in the fun, hiding in our little beach shelter, waiting for the beach to be clear of strolling clothed families with gawping teenagers, before making a dash into the gentle waves. The same procedure repeated to emerge from the sea. There is always the dread of seeing someone you know, clothed or unclothed; a friend took his family, persuaded them to undress, then looked up in horror to see his boss waddling stark naked towards them. ‘Oh no, it’s Big Madge’ he exclaimed, urging his family to retreat to the dunes.
But the regulars, the real naturists, are blasé as they greet friends from last summer. Their nut brown bodies are devoid of tell tale strips of white skin, they stand hands on hips, legs akimbo, chatting in as relaxed a manner as if they were by the water cooler at work.

When I was at junior school I used to purposely leave home late so I could run the mile and a half to school. In PE lessons I was the fastest girl in the class pelting across the tarmac playground. Unfortunately this success did not translate to the grass of the recreation ground where the annual sports day was held. But when I watched on television the bizarre sight of adults running in a race, I genuinely thought that I could beat them; after all, my mother said that grownups couldn’t run.
At senior school I was always picked last for netball teams, but as I still think it the most boring game inflicted upon children, that was no great loss. Hockey was more fun, you could get away with not knowing the rules by just running up and down. But basically any sport involving aiming or catching balls was a no go area for me.
I never got the much wished for pony, so even with riding lessons at several stables of mixed repute, equestrian events were out of the question. So where did roller skating, tree climbing, ditch jumping and galloping round the school playground pretending to be a horse lead to? Adult me has enjoyed swimming, popmobility, aquarobics, dog walking, holiday hiking up scenic hills; activities that usually end in nice coffee shops not the podium.
But whether we are active or couch potatoes, most of us admire Olympic athletes. We thought nothing could beat the thrill of the London Olympics, but seeing Great Britain zoom up to come second in the medals table has set our hearts racing and for writers every person comes with a story. ( Despite the joke headline ‘Athlete wins medal with no story’.)
Team Refugee reminded us that not everyone has a country and exciting though it is to see your own country doing well, each competitor is a unique human being. For some competitors the drama comes during their event. Falling off, dropping out before the final, tripping up, helping a rival up, losing in the very last second. Perhaps the most poignant story was the French pole vaulter apparently booed by a crowd frantic with excitement at the prospect of a Brazilian winning. He was then booed again as he stood on the podium to collect his silver, while the Brazilian collected his gold. The incident went against everything The Olympics stands for. Outside the stadium, athletes who apparently invented a robbery story disrespected their hosts, brought shame to their own country and spoilt the World’s greatest party.
But for the most part, despite the dire media predictions of major problems, Brazil gave us a great Games and everyone will have their favourite memories. I loved watching horses jumping, men rowing, gymnasts spinning round poles, cyclists hurtling downhill and triathletes swimming, cycling and finally running out in front of the rest of the field to the finishing line, as the Brownlee brothers did to win their gold and silver.
Of course, being British, we cannot enjoy our triumphs without some guilt thrown in; an advantage over other countries smaller or without the same resources? After the Atlanta Olympics, when we only got one gold medal, it was decided something must be done; lottery money has poured in to support programmes to develop talent and most athletes are happy to agree they would not have got to Rio without it. But the Big Plan would not have worked without the dedication and hard work of the Olympians and their trainers. Now I’m off to watch the closing ceremony.

We have been dipping into the Commonwealth Games, literally on my part as swimming is one of the few sports with a chance of grabbing my attention; it’s easy to understand the rules and it’s mercifully short. To add interest, unlike the Olympics, Cyberspouse and I are on different teams. The United Kingdom is split asunder into England, the Kingdom of Scotland, the Principality of Wales and the Province of Northern Island.

Alongside the big names such as Canada and Australia, this year’s host, are tiny countries and islands we may never have heard of, but these are the ‘Friendly Games’ and the crowd love to cheer the valiant competitor coming in three laps behind everyone else in the relay. Also adding to the feel good factor has been the total integration of paralympians for the first time.

I like swimming, I love swimming in the sea, in rivers, lakes and heated swimming pools. In a previous incarnation we were nearing the end of a training course and waiting to see where we might be posted. For some reason I can’t recall, perhaps to do with our welfare, we were being interviewed by a person. What were my interests and hobbies, this person asked and I was stumped for an answer; competitive sport was not my thing, writing I had not taken seriously yet, dressmaking sounded boring, youth hostelling, walking vague, gardening was out of the question for a good few years to come. I heard myself say swimming. Swimming for leisure I meant and was horrified to hear a few weeks later that I had been put down for swimming races at Chrystal Palace.

I admire the swimmers in races. I know the few minutes or less the race takes is in contrast to the hours and years spent to reach international competition. Even more I am fascinated by their elegant dives, tumble turns and sleek powering through the glittering blue water. If I was there on the starting block I would be sure to take off seconds too soon or too late. In the backstroke race, as the other swimmers let go of the rails and propel themselves into a graceful arc, I would splash water into my nose and mouth and have to cling to the side spluttering to recover. Swimming is purely for fun, to cool off on a hot day and hopefully to save oneself or someone else in an emergency. Training and competitions have never held any attraction. Luckily when I turned up at Chrystal Palace I was only reserve and never entered the water.

I did not learn to swim till I was nearly twelve. I loved the water, but my activities were confined to paddling in the sea and wading in Frensham Ponds while my parents looked on, fully clothed and with blankets over their knees if it was the seaside. When we emigrated to Australia I was too embarrassed to tell the children at school I couldn’t swim. After one experience of the beach and Indian Ocean our parents decided to stick to the river. I kept splashing up and down till one day I started floating.

My novel Quarter Acre Block is inspired by my family’s experience of emigrating to Western Australia; it is not autobiographical, but the Palmer family, like mine, arrive for their new life unable to swim.
Read about the novel and my family’s own story at my website.
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