It’s been all about the swimming lately. Over the last week I have boldly ventured into the bay daily, armed with nothing more than togs, cap, goggles and a natural immunity to salt.
The likelihood of my head imploding from the cold has moved down the list to make way for being mowed down by pleasure boaters. Either that or an angler mistaking me for a barracuda. After six months searching for survivors under toxic amounts of tumbleweed, this place is suddenly heaving. On our last trip to Blenheim, we came across two other vehicles on the road and a guy in a wetsuit. (See? HE to the VING.)
On Friday morning, I drove Husband to the beach to go diving with Sheriff and – after they’d launched – availed of the opportunity to go for a swim. Not that I’m short of opportunities but, you know, I was there.
The target was 80 strokes.
Leaving my dog burying his tennis ball on the beach, I waded into the shallows, adjusted my hat, wedged on goggles, and one deep breath later struck out parallel to the shore.
After 40 strokes, I stopped and pivoted for the return leg and WOAH! there in my face, coming at me with a look of grim intent, paddling like a maniac on fire at such speed I was nearly knocked over by his bow wave*, was Jed.
And if he DIDN’T intend to splash water in my face with his forelegs while simultaneously karate-kicking me in the stomach with the rest of them, I’m not sure what he was about.
* Ok, is there any possible way I can make a joke out of bow wow and wave? OH NOW COME ON!