Usually I fit my contemplations of Nature in paradisiacal wording. I try to transport the reader to my Belvedere and depict my observations. Sometimes, though, I fall victim to my own pleasure and then there is no other option but to save my skin.
The day began with a smooth, mirror-like sea, stained with respectively a charter boat with lots of anglers, a rib with lamebrains that came and went after Dusty and a rib with anglers, that manoeuvred ever so cautiously close to the coast so as not to ignite the wrath of the big fish. To my considerable content I saw that Dusty paid only marginal attention to both ribs and that the charter boat anglers apparently feared Dusty's competition as pretty soon they left for the horizon.
The weather was galoreous and my decision was easily made: to Dusty. As she had swum quite a stretch I thought it wise to again depart from Bridie’s. I left a colony of amorously shrieking gulls and scraped the van through the green-tufted scratch bramble shoots of Funny Lane.
While I changed into my suit the wind picked up a bit, but the wavelets carried a friendly smile. When I descended to the little bay, however, I saw there was a swell that only built just before the rocks. When the tide is out there is a friendly little sandy beach at 'Bridie’s Corner', but it was half tide and most of the big boulders were already submerged. The swell roared up lots of sand, so these were hardly visible. As the sand in between them gets largely sucked away it became a blind walk over stumble stones and into jar holes.
I went flat-out, washed to and fro before I knew it, and had to let go of the waterwing. It floats, but the monofin sinks, so it demands an absolute hold. But after a short wrestle, mask emptied and snorkel turned up again, I had outswum the turmoil.
But what a surprisache. I had reckoned the offshore wind had blown the water to crystal quality. But it was dusty and the confetti very much frustrated the visibility. I took the pain and went for Pollenawatch. This seemed by now closer than the last time, but there also ground-up seaweed swayed, but no Dusty.
Photo: Kevin Byrne
It made little sense to hang around, so I returned, doing lots of recreational, non-dolphin-oriented, dives on a hazed seabed with frenzied flapping weed strands. After my turbulent entry a worry had crossed my mind about my later exit. But I discarded that, not wanting to ruin my swim delight. However, it became an increasing concern, now that on my way back I saw mountains of water rising everywhere, high splash thundering upon the rocks.
When I arrived at 'Bridie’s Corner' it rapidly became clear to me that there was no way out here. The incoming waves broke on the side rocks and bounced into joint force, storming the exit. This maelstrom would take any foothold away and I would helplessly be smashed across the boulders and torn along the rasping rocks. On top of that I would have to take off the monofin. But I could lose not only that, the waterwing would not be easy to retrieve in this wild water either.
Above I saw the van and from the bottom of my heart wished to be safe home. A protruding point cut the water aside and seemed to maintain a calm right before it. I hung around for a few minutes to convince myself of its reliability. But just when I tried to make myself believe that this was a reasonable alternative, from nothing a water mountain rose that would have flung me on a barnacled bite, had I attempted to exit.
How now brown cow? As my life did not flash by in high speed images, I knew all would end well, and so do all of you now enjoying this tale of terror. Because I know the Rockièra like my tongue knows my teeth and the one at the slipway has been pulled yeaars ago. So I just swam back a bit to the slipway and without noteworthy effort freed myself from the frantic Atlantic.
Now a less dangerous, but as horrific a problem arrived. There was no way I would walk back along the road to Bridie’s on my diving socks. This was my second last pair of winter double socks and I did not want to wear them out. So my bare feet would have to do.
It had never occurred to me how crude the gravel was that had been used for the road. This showed a very different picture faced by my foot soles. This impression was quite painful and the verge was only sporadically arrayed with softer grass. In a brainwave I decided to walk on the smoother middle mark of the road. That bought me a good 50 metres. Thereafter overtaking was allowed again and they became islands in a sea of pain.
I was only 60 metres away from the van and at the end of my smart. With one foot in the verge and the other in agony I stood in desperation. Help!
But of course, why not have said that before. A car stopped, it was Kevin and Veronica. Are you all right, Jan? Not really. And before I knew it my feet were delivered from the cruel tarmac by the velvety soles of a pair of Asics.
Half a measure too small, but my feet had shrunk from the pain anyway.
And so I was reminded how enlightened the invention of the shoe is. And that, before you wrestle yourself INto your wetsuit you'd better first make sure you can get OUT of the water as well.