The four couples sat on blankets on the stony beach. The sun shone. A bottle of wine was open, well on the way to being finished. Once empty it would join the two bottles already waiting for disposal.
“She looks a strong swimmer,” one of the men said.
Those of the group with their backs to the sea turned to look. They all agreed the young woman swimming was practised. Strong strokes propelled her through the water quickly. The tide was going out and she would need to be strong.
She was a way out.
None of the group realised how strong the current was that far out so made no comment on the distance.
They could, however, all appreciate the style and strength they were witnessing.
The swimmer was further out than she was last week. Further still than the week before that.
Battling the powerful tide on her way back in.
She was very attractive. In her mid thirties. Although the viewers could not see that from the beach.
She swam here regularly. Three or four times a week.
Living only a twenty minute drive away she could pick her times. A drive, a twenty minute swim, a drive back. Regular. A ritual.
No different to anyone visiting a gym in their lunchtime.
Not too much time out of a busy day although she was forced to visit at different times. A little inconvenient but necessary to ensure she always caught an ebbing tide.
That was the way to build both stamina and strength.
As she swam she thought of her lover. A man she wanted to be with. He was good for her. She swam and recalled the moments they had snatched together. Or she imagined those yet to be snatched. Occasionally she swam and thought of the man who stopped her being with her lover. Her husband.
Her husband was a nice man. They got on well. She liked him but the passion, the storm, had gone. She wanted, no, she needed her lover.
A divorce would have been possible. There was no reason why not. There were no children in their six years together.
No major encumbrances of any kind actually. But the house would need to be sold in any divorce. These days too, she would probably have to pay him money in any split.
She did not like the thought of that.
She thought all this as she swam.
Always against the tide.
On those days that she couldn’t swim in the sea she went to the gym.
It was not the nearest gym to either home or her studio, nor the best. But it had a pool. Not a conventional pool but one of those that resembled a long trough of water that had a flow to it. You swam in and against a constant stream of water.
The same principal as a static bicycle.
The swimmer controlled the strength of the surge. She was now on a high flow rate.
She swam, getting nowhere but stronger.
Her husband was a little surprised, but still pleased, when she had suggested a long weekend away in Sawbridge, a seaside town on the east coast. She explained that it had featured in a recent magazine and received good reviews. It may be September but there were still sunny days and fine evening weather. The hotel she had booked was five stars and the restaurant was raved over.
They had driven there the following Friday evening.
The Saturday was fine and sunny. She had suggested a swim after a late afternoon walk. Too cold he had complained. She had chided him. Man or mouse. Just a dip before dinner. It would be good to swim then return and shower warmth back in. Perhaps together.
So they had swum. Just beyond where the promenade finished and fewer people walked.
Their clothes were left neatly piled on the stones near the water. The towels left ready to welcome them on their return.
The sea would not wet their things. The tide was going out.
Not too far out she had said, the tide is turning. We won’t be in there long she had said too.
The water was cold. It always is on the East coast. It is anywhere around the British Isles.
They did not go out far. But far enough. Then just a little more. She called out that it wasn’t that bad was it. She could not hear his answer so he swam out nearer her so she could hear.
After ten minutes her husband said he was cold. That he was concerned. They were further out than he realised, or liked. He was struggling and not making any headway back.
The shoreline seemed, and was, a long way away.
She called to him not to panic. That she would get back and get some help.
Tread water she said. She would get help.
She began to swim.
He called after her but she appeared not to hear.
Strong, even strokes took her back against the tide.
Even she struggled at one point.
As she came out of the water a couple walking towards the promenade called.
“Is he alright?”
She looked behind and out to sea. Her husband was waving. She waved back.
“Fine thanks, He’s a stronger swimmer than me,” she said convincingly.
She waved again at her husband.
The couple wandered off arm in arm while she towelled herself dry.
Five years later, another group of couples sat on blankets on the same stony beach drinking chilled wine and beers. They too watched, admired and commented as a swimmer cut through the water some way out from shore.
She swam against the tide.
Four and a half years back the swimmers lover had moved in. He had asked if she needed more time from the tragedy she had incurred. She had not.
They had married after eighteen months.
They enjoyed life together. She still had no children nor desire for any.
He was a good man, life was good. At least, OK. He was still a good lover to her, but.
He had been surprised and pleased when she had suggested a long weekend away to a small village some fifteen miles further on than a place called Sawbridge.
It’s on the East coast she had told him. A boutique hotel with a Michelin star.
It was September. Still some good days she had said. Still some warm, sunny evenings too she had added.
They were due to go next Friday.
Her lover husband did swim, occasionally, but not too well.
Lately she swam each day. She had rejoined the gym.
She said her body needed toning.
