p This morning, I swam in a warm sea for the first time in, oh ages. I can't recall the last time.
I'd forgotten how! I never imagined that could happen, but just as your body forgets the balance of tango, how to hold an infant so she nestles into the crook of your collarbone, your body forgets how to work with the sea,. It even forgets to be aware without being afraid.
The surf wasn't wild, but waves were breaking, and I know--know in the top part of my mind, the cognitive knowing you don't forget--that to avoid being bashed around, knocked down and generally embarrassed by the waves, you have to go out far enough, where they have less traction in the water overall, so you bob in them rather than being victimised by that lovely, bottle-green water.
But the waves were just big enough and spaced just closely enough, that the part of my mind operating outside the cognitive was saying (quite loudly!), "Be careful! You don't know this beach, where its shelves and holes are, the currents and potential freaks. Don't go OUT THERE!"
And in those first tentative minutes, I ventured in slowly, nervously, and the sea reminded me right away, that there's a big difference between respect and fear, and if you're afraid, you'd better just stay out. She pushed me over, right behind the knees, gently, playfully, with a slapping little wave . Like saying, "put up or shut up".
And the fearful part of me, whispering pointless advice such as, "no one KNOWS you here! If you start to drown, you're on your own, babe!" And worst of all, when I had a hard time getting my feet back under me to raise me up because the water was shallow under me, the fearful part said, "You're too old for this! You're stiff, your muscles and bones can't DO this anymore! You'll NEVER be able to do this again!" That was the most depressing message of all, not least of all because I couldn't be sure in that moment, with the next wave about to smack me down again, that it wasn't true.
The prudent thing to do would be to get out, head for shore. The hotel pool is very clean and very blue, without these troublesome, distressing waves.
Screw that.
I fought my way out through dozens of smart-alecky waves to the place where it's possible to rest on top of the waves, where they pass by you, under you, even through you. That's the best, when your body remembers that actually, it's mostly salt water
(At some point, we DO get too old to do certain things, such as see up close OR far away, which makes putting on mascara an act of sheer bravado, because you either stab yourself in the eyeball trying to get within range, or get gluey black marks anywhere except your eyelashes, unaware that, just when you're trying to be your most elegant, you've come instead to actually resemble the mad, mad Nora Desmond in Sunset Boulevard.)
Where was I...right. I was wading briskly through the advancing teal waters, persuading myself that I probably wouldn't die, and that once I got out far enough, they would no longer advance on me like small, wild animals, but roll under me, support my corklike body and generally behave like friends.
You may love the sea, but you don't give yourself up to her blindly. You keep an eye out for the waves as they appear and grow and arrive, so you know how you're going to take action. Once you're in the right spot, you can bob like a cork in the wave; in a big unavoidable one, hold your breath and dive yourself under it; when there's enough sand under your feet, you can turn sideways and let it hit the narrowest part of you. Sometimes, you can swim along the top edge of a wave; sometimes you can rest of top and let it carry you closer to the shore.
Once you swim in the sea, you learn certain rules. You don't turn your back on the sea, because you don't really know what she's going to get up to. It's not personal; the sea's not out to get you, she just rolls and moves with wind and currents and thermoclines and unseen obstacles and motivators that could be a thousand miles away. In the sea, what am I? A piece of flotsam, barely self-motivating (I'm not much of a swimmer at the best of times, and with years out of the water, I'm not even strong and flexible. But I am part seawater, and that's a comfort.) I remind myself that my dad taught me to float when I was a child, and when I said I was afraid of deep water, he said, "It doesn't matter how deep the water is: you only float in the top few inches anyway." That one's kept me from panicking more than once, when I found myself farther out then I'd known, or carried away on a sea setting in a direction I hadn't seen from shore.
But, the wading-in time; that's the risky bit. Because you can't float on top until you're out far enough to float. It seems to me there have been too many times in my life where I stayed in the breakers because I was too afraid to slog it out to where the sand evens out and the water gets smoother.
Wading past the breakers, that's tricky. You have to commit to a course of action before really knowing the circumstances. Where does the beach shelve? Are there hidden holes, coral rocks to scrape yourself bloody on? Rip tides ? Sharks, for godssakes? Who knows?
And when you're alone, it's even trickier. With a friend, you can go in holding hands, watch out for each other, at the very least shriek for help if your buddy's sinking for the third time. You can even chicken out, with one saying to the other, "To hell with all this: let's get a beer." Acquiescence doesn't look like cowardice, when you've (ostensibly) done it to please someone else. In fact, it looks downright gracious --as long as you never blame them for it.
But never mind; in this scenario, I am quite alone.
The question is, are you going to swim? Or go back to the pool, where the depths are limited and the water still?
Stalida looks from the sea like a row of unmade bunk beds in a child's toy-strewn room. Hotels posh and ratty claim the beaches and white and off-white stucco houses step across the lower hills. The shops and signs create a fairground atmosphere. Tourists bronzed, sunset red and milk-pale stretch out on sun-loungers and huddle under umbrellas. I've always found these places lovely and horrible .
At the top of a steep, barren mountain, stands a solitary house, a fenced area running partway down the mountain, no trees, minimal scrub; the only green in sight some unnameable vegetation along and under the fencing. It is sere, sad, bald and lonely. I look at it, and the thought is instant, "Thank God I don't have to live there." But from there, it must be wildly different. I wonder how its owner feels, the massive sweep of azure ocean laid out below, the little white stucco boxes of the town made pretty by their distance. It's probably very beautiful from that terrible, empty aerie.
The sea settled down for a few minutes, the waves diminished to a flat calm. I took my eyes off the water long enough for something I'd never seen before: a single white crane, gliding over the water, closer and closer to the tops of the waves. Shaped like a scimitar, skimming whiteness, a few charcoal marks here and there, for the sake of beauty and nothing else, dipping and louvering over the warm, blue-green, melted-glass sea.
I'd forgotten how! I never imagined that could happen, but just as your body forgets the balance of tango, how to hold an infant so she nestles into the crook of your collarbone, your body forgets how to work with the sea,. It even forgets to be aware without being afraid.
The surf wasn't wild, but waves were breaking, and I know--know in the top part of my mind, the cognitive knowing you don't forget--that to avoid being bashed around, knocked down and generally embarrassed by the waves, you have to go out far enough, where they have less traction in the water overall, so you bob in them rather than being victimised by that lovely, bottle-green water.
But the waves were just big enough and spaced just closely enough, that the part of my mind operating outside the cognitive was saying (quite loudly!), "Be careful! You don't know this beach, where its shelves and holes are, the currents and potential freaks. Don't go OUT THERE!"
And in those first tentative minutes, I ventured in slowly, nervously, and the sea reminded me right away, that there's a big difference between respect and fear, and if you're afraid, you'd better just stay out. She pushed me over, right behind the knees, gently, playfully, with a slapping little wave . Like saying, "put up or shut up".
And the fearful part of me, whispering pointless advice such as, "no one KNOWS you here! If you start to drown, you're on your own, babe!" And worst of all, when I had a hard time getting my feet back under me to raise me up because the water was shallow under me, the fearful part said, "You're too old for this! You're stiff, your muscles and bones can't DO this anymore! You'll NEVER be able to do this again!" That was the most depressing message of all, not least of all because I couldn't be sure in that moment, with the next wave about to smack me down again, that it wasn't true.
The prudent thing to do would be to get out, head for shore. The hotel pool is very clean and very blue, without these troublesome, distressing waves.
Screw that.
I fought my way out through dozens of smart-alecky waves to the place where it's possible to rest on top of the waves, where they pass by you, under you, even through you. That's the best, when your body remembers that actually, it's mostly salt water
(At some point, we DO get too old to do certain things, such as see up close OR far away, which makes putting on mascara an act of sheer bravado, because you either stab yourself in the eyeball trying to get within range, or get gluey black marks anywhere except your eyelashes, unaware that, just when you're trying to be your most elegant, you've come instead to actually resemble the mad, mad Nora Desmond in Sunset Boulevard.)
Where was I...right. I was wading briskly through the advancing teal waters, persuading myself that I probably wouldn't die, and that once I got out far enough, they would no longer advance on me like small, wild animals, but roll under me, support my corklike body and generally behave like friends.
You may love the sea, but you don't give yourself up to her blindly. You keep an eye out for the waves as they appear and grow and arrive, so you know how you're going to take action. Once you're in the right spot, you can bob like a cork in the wave; in a big unavoidable one, hold your breath and dive yourself under it; when there's enough sand under your feet, you can turn sideways and let it hit the narrowest part of you. Sometimes, you can swim along the top edge of a wave; sometimes you can rest of top and let it carry you closer to the shore.
Once you swim in the sea, you learn certain rules. You don't turn your back on the sea, because you don't really know what she's going to get up to. It's not personal; the sea's not out to get you, she just rolls and moves with wind and currents and thermoclines and unseen obstacles and motivators that could be a thousand miles away. In the sea, what am I? A piece of flotsam, barely self-motivating (I'm not much of a swimmer at the best of times, and with years out of the water, I'm not even strong and flexible. But I am part seawater, and that's a comfort.) I remind myself that my dad taught me to float when I was a child, and when I said I was afraid of deep water, he said, "It doesn't matter how deep the water is: you only float in the top few inches anyway." That one's kept me from panicking more than once, when I found myself farther out then I'd known, or carried away on a sea setting in a direction I hadn't seen from shore.
But, the wading-in time; that's the risky bit. Because you can't float on top until you're out far enough to float. It seems to me there have been too many times in my life where I stayed in the breakers because I was too afraid to slog it out to where the sand evens out and the water gets smoother.
Wading past the breakers, that's tricky. You have to commit to a course of action before really knowing the circumstances. Where does the beach shelve? Are there hidden holes, coral rocks to scrape yourself bloody on? Rip tides ? Sharks, for godssakes? Who knows?
And when you're alone, it's even trickier. With a friend, you can go in holding hands, watch out for each other, at the very least shriek for help if your buddy's sinking for the third time. You can even chicken out, with one saying to the other, "To hell with all this: let's get a beer." Acquiescence doesn't look like cowardice, when you've (ostensibly) done it to please someone else. In fact, it looks downright gracious --as long as you never blame them for it.
But never mind; in this scenario, I am quite alone.
The question is, are you going to swim? Or go back to the pool, where the depths are limited and the water still?
Stalida looks from the sea like a row of unmade bunk beds in a child's toy-strewn room. Hotels posh and ratty claim the beaches and white and off-white stucco houses step across the lower hills. The shops and signs create a fairground atmosphere. Tourists bronzed, sunset red and milk-pale stretch out on sun-loungers and huddle under umbrellas. I've always found these places lovely and horrible .
At the top of a steep, barren mountain, stands a solitary house, a fenced area running partway down the mountain, no trees, minimal scrub; the only green in sight some unnameable vegetation along and under the fencing. It is sere, sad, bald and lonely. I look at it, and the thought is instant, "Thank God I don't have to live there." But from there, it must be wildly different. I wonder how its owner feels, the massive sweep of azure ocean laid out below, the little white stucco boxes of the town made pretty by their distance. It's probably very beautiful from that terrible, empty aerie.
The sea settled down for a few minutes, the waves diminished to a flat calm. I took my eyes off the water long enough for something I'd never seen before: a single white crane, gliding over the water, closer and closer to the tops of the waves. Shaped like a scimitar, skimming whiteness, a few charcoal marks here and there, for the sake of beauty and nothing else, dipping and louvering over the warm, blue-green, melted-glass sea.