Apricot Press

There’s no spring in the water. Colder than Christmas. 8 degrees. I have the apps too, y’know, I’m not a relic. I move my bones to shed the cold as it laps into me: jaw, skull, fingers, toes. A creep like death up my spine.

The seal ladies were in before me. Splashing. Chubby. Shiny with neoprene. From my place in the waves, I watch them beach. They’re well into their summer season, let’s be honest, but out of the water they regress to cubs: marooned fluff balls. In bobble hats, of all things.

When it’s my turn I just strip. I tip my thermos over goose-fleshed legs. Quick scrub and away. One of them gazes at me shamelessly.

Preview of the winter years, eh?

I throw a towel round my skinny shoulders, but she stands and moves towards me. Oh, Heaven help me! That neighbour. I didn’t recognise her without the row of quacking ducklings waddling behind.

‘Are you going back up?’ She beams. ‘I’ll join you.’

Will you?

‘We must be crazy!’ she laughs as we climb.

Must we?

I think of her shiny black fingers and toes. Man-made blubber to add to her own. Did she even feel that sharp thrill? That electric jolt? That awakening?

‘Oh,’ she stops dead, grabs my arm. ‘This!’ she says, her face turned to the sun, red blotches blooming from the swim. ‘I feel like I’ve been waiting for this for years.’

I tilt up too, eyes closed. What else can I do? Standing like a ninny in the street.

The thawing warmth stalks across my skin, needling at something deeper.

I Google it when I get home, it’s not beyond me. “Are There Seasons In The Sea?” Yes. So I was wrong. You can’t tell me it’s not cold though.

Photo credit: Matt Hardy