Swimming with the current

Milky turquoise | Chalk trolls | A blue shoal

The beach is busy, even the quiet one where, at low tide, the chalk caves are slimed with green and knobbles of white stick up through the sand like knuckles. Today, the tide is right in, pressing against those chalky cliffs, covering the end of the ramp, walkway giving way to ocean.

I find a space on the sand and peel my layers off. There are people everywhere, lying and tanning, splashing in the shallows, even a few swim capped heads further out. The water is turquoise and cobalt, but misty; the legacy of the chalk, of the churned up sands and this final burst of summer. I wade in, through the throng. There are more bodies in the water than normal, but the ocean is big enough to lose myself in.

I strike out away from the bay, following the base of the cliffs where the sea is gently buffing the base of the crumbling rock. I stretch, muscles yawning, arms long, reaching. The current is strong, holding me almost static, but soon enough the busy beach is forgotten. It is still there, close enough if I look, but it doesn’t matter any more. I am all salt.

I continue along the cliff, looking into the caves with their green hair, something troll like about the long silky strands. These could be good hiding places for trolls - in old Norse, trolls lived in isolated caves or mountains, alone or in small families. Or the cliffs themselves could be trolls, caught out by the morning sun, locked into a rocky form, as is often the case in Scandinavian folklore - in these tales trolls are often linked to certain landmarks or landscapes. There are so many stories, so many variations of story.

I swim the way I have so often walked, towards the promenade of the next beach, the next town along. But the current is steady, steadier than me, and soon I realise I am barely gaining. I look up, to the cliffs above, grass and sea pinks sprouting from the top. A gull, stretched wide and effortless against the sun, planes by. I turn back.

The current is behind me now, and I glide, effortless myself, every stroke propelling me for metres, gliding with the water. Everything is blue and green and beige and clouded, but as I go, from time to time, a flash; the sandy bottom, a weed covered chalk knuckle. Then, suddenly, as if I am far from Kent, as if I am back in Greece and watching the water for movement, a shoal of fish. Silver blue, flashing, all moving as one. I have never seen fish like this here. I have never seen so many. I turn back, hold myself against the current, try to follow. But it is too late. The current is strong and they are fast. By the time I turn, they are gone, only a flash in the sand swirled current.