November Hoe

Plymouth Hoe, November, 250m in chop and swell,13°c, low tide

I watched the water, lapping, away from the beach
under a street light, sunken down from the street.
I knew I was to swim in it, kit in hand, keys 'tween fingers nervously extended my walk to the cave we'd claimed below the city,
warm lights already on,
laughter already brewing.
I change, quietly, in a corner where salt drips from the ceiling in downward spires, rest my clothes on a donated lawn chair,
slip on a bikini I bought pre-babe,
a dry robe, hat, goggles, light, tow float,
settle into my preparedness.
We edge to the water
in trips and swears, in "why are we doing this", in "it's positively tropical", and we kick
away from our small piece of earth
into the wide, wide sea.
I see the flashes of guardian lights, tow floats, boats and Smeaton,
the chop hits in vast swells of one, then one, two,
some rest
on their backs to take the hit,
others side on, others just charge,
these are the champions of my worldly experience,
these are the women and men who replenish my soul,
the icy water acts as a reboot.
I suit endurance.
We come in and I rush through changing,
some go
to eat fish and chips in the Dolphin.
There's humour for me in that.
I head home,
passed a drunk girl dancing in the street,
sad and over hydrated, willing a car to hit her, she flops in on herself, there
in the centre of a busy road, by night,
a car charges her, she stumbles back then collapses on the curb laughing.
I feel for the driver.
I feel for her family
and her.
It's a strange time to be alive,
I'm glad I've found my peace with it.