For almost thirty years, I’ve swum with a rather unusual swimming club: unusual because it holds its meetings in a tidal river baths, rather than the usual man-made swimming pools, or sea-baths.
Today’s meeting, however, was more than a little different, for two reasons. Firstly, the tide was near its maximum ever, around two metres. The second: that a relay race was held.
King tides are always impressive, and sadly, few of them fall on those Sundays when our Club meets. Those massive tides that happen in winter are quite lost to us swimmers: after all, who’d chose to swim in water that is twelve degrees Centigrade, and late in the evening to boot?
No. When they happen at convenient times, our club makes full use of them, and schedules as many events as possible. Today’s relay was, most likely, the one and only for the season. And what a tussle the fast heat became, with the winner separated by a whisker!
And what could be amiss, with all this water?
No beach to walk on!
Yes, our yellow sands were swallowed up by this rising tide, leaving us to ponder the miracle of the tides that come and go, transforming our world in a never-ending cycle.
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margaret lynette sharp 