I am a sardine
At the municipal pool a coterie of us, dawn dippers, wait summer and winter for the doors to open at seven – eight at the weekends.
We’re a disparate group, united only by this habit. Our swimming styles are as varied as our interests and I think we’ve evolved from different genuses of fish. Maureen was an ichthyosaur – the water displacement’s alarming as she plops into the pool; Abigail was a sand dab, has both eyes on the same side of her face and does what sand dabs do; Matt’s a cat shark, he undulates and we all get out of his way; Pauline’s not a fish at all, she walks not on but in the water and perhaps has mutated from homo sapiens.
I am a sardine. I instinctively give way to all larger beasts. Even their shadow makes me turn aside. It’s my mother’s fault of course. As a child, her powerful stroke inspired me with anxiety. I’ve an early forlorn recollection of her head on the sea’s horizon at Frinton as she appeared to be bunking off to Rotterdam. As a memento mori I’ve inherited the medal awarded her in 1926 by the Royal Lifesaving Society. Around its rim is their motto: ‘quemcunque miserum videris hominem scias: whomsoever you see in distress recognise in him a fellow man.’ On another Frinton occasion for no good reason she practised this black art on me. She snatched me from the gentle spume and dragged me out to sea. Most of the ocean went up my nose and I suspected attempted murder. These two events marred my development and I turned into a land crab until I was forty. Only then, with self-determination and fight back, did I evolve into a fish.
Though I’m a boring sardine, lacking in imagination or variety of stroke, I have stamina. I breathe eloquently and dart about, avoiding the big fish built to damage and devour. Strong swimmers hate the slow with ominous malevolence. The pool has ropes to rein them in but no net or ocean’s wide enough to contain their rage and spite.
I’ve learned the courage to join the fray. My presence goads, but I avoid. Up and down I go, and in and out. At first I tried counting the lengths, but found I cheated. Now I just keep at it for half an hour. The best time, as with most perverse behaviour, is when it’s over: a hot shower and unguents follow, and a perfect cup of coffee. If I miss this daily dice with death, my mood and energy level lower. Exhilaration at surviving it inspires my working day.