A new life and fresh start had left me feeling out of my depth in more ways than one . . .
BY JO THOMAS
Who on earth thought swimming in the sea off west Wales in March was a good idea? Not me, that’s for sure.
I have no idea why I agreed to it. I look down at the shoreline where women in bobble hats are standing in the shallows, while a few are already in the water, waving to the others to join them.
I pull my coat closer around me and hug my towel to my chest. I look around at the beach. It’s beautiful.
There are sand dunes with long grasses doubled over in the wind, like brooms sweeping the floor.
In front of the dunes, the wind is blowing sand along the beach. It reminds me of a billowing sheet hung out to dry on washday.
And then the sea. Waves are rolling in, one after another, their frothy white edges like whipped cream on the hot chocolate I’d like to be drinking right now. I shiver, drawing my coat tighter around me and pulling my woolly hat over my ears, but lift my face to the wind.
The air smells clean, salty, invigorating. The wind whistles joyously as the crows battle against it, and dogs career into it as it teases them this way and that.
Seagulls squawk like a bunch of rowdy teenagers hanging out in a shopping precinct, while oystercatchers dig with their long orange beaks in the rock pools and shallows, ignoring the shenanigans of the seagulls and the dogs.
A group is gathering by the rocks at the bottom of the path. They’re stripping off big towelling coats and piling them on the ground with their bags.
Someone is making a circle with stones and lighting a fire. Smoke is starting to curl upwards.
They’re all delighted to see each other and excited at the prospect of a cold-water swim, the idea of which is chilling me to the bone.
Perhaps no one has spotted me. I could just slip off, I think. The wind sends a chilling blast down my neck.
That’s it. I hunch my shoulders into my coat, put my head down and turn to leave, happy I’m not going to be taking a freezing plunge and can head straight for the hot chocolate I’m craving.
“Hey, you made it!” says a pleased-sounding voice.
Too late. My spirits dip. I’ve been seen.
“Happy Sunday!” say two women from the Sunday morning swimming group.
They are strolling from the car park where I’m standing, to join the others on the sand at the bottom of
