A Brighton Life

Written by Angelica Blake-Lawson

I live in Brighton, where the city is a bustling, vibrant melting pot sandwiched between a crust of coastline and a patchwork quilt of countryside. The outskirts feel much more rural and provide a slightly more laid back approach to life - often a welcome escape after a long day of emails and traffic noise. The outskirts are where I feel I can most be myself, where I belong, as I much prefer the chance of bumping into a neighbour on a walk by the sea than being bumped into by a tourist or getting stuck behind a large group of students holding clipboards and following a yellow umbrella. But it’s not just walking by the sea that I love, it’s swimming in it too. Although, the weather has to be right. Some people around here swim all through the winter, including Christmas Day, when they enter en masse in Santa hats for a mere few seconds before retreating back up the beach and fumbling into their dry robes. I wouldn’t exactly call this swimming. I prefer to wait until the summer, when I can withstand the temperature for a good forty minutes to make it worthwhile. And that first swim of the year is always special. Having waited around nine months, the bliss is often overwhelming, and fills my heart with so much gratitude that I have to document my experience so I can relive it all over again in words. Here is a diary entry from the thirteenth of June.

With an outside temperature of 27°C, I decide it is finally warm enough to go swimming in the sea for the first time this year. I pack my old black Adidas bag to a zip-busting degree with towel, goggles, water shoes, tow float, wetsuit, suncream, water bottle, snacks and the latest book I’m reading - Grounded by Ruth Allen. As I saunter down towards the beach it is just me and my thoughts, and I begin to get apprehensive. What if it’s too windy? What if the water isn’t clean? What if I’m too cold and can’t stand it for more than a few minutes?

I reach the bottom of the road and cross over to the cliff side of the path and an instant breath of relief escapes me. Below the abundance of wildflowers, the stunningly clear, intense blue sea shimmers smugly, knowing its beauty and not needing any further compliments. The rocks on the sea bed look as if they are only covered by a thin transparent layer of resin that isn’t quite set, and further out to sea, large gatherings of gulls catch my eye. Perhaps they’ve found something tasty to eat. Smiling joyfully at the sea's irresistible invitation, I quicken my pace in a race to get to the water’s edge. I settle in a perfect spot on my favourite beach, the dog beach to the far left of the Whitecliffs Cafe. This is always the quietest one, and I prefer occasional excitable dogs to human chatter when I’m trying to relax. Unzipping my bag, I set out my multicoloured towel with a substantial stone on each corner to stop it flapping in the meagre breeze, and I begin puffing to inflate my tow float, a fluorescent orange marker of my whereabouts in the water in case I get in trouble. Although it’s still, you can never be too careful. Shimmying on my wetsuit, I set my Fitbit watch to the swimming setting, pull on my neon orange water shoes, clip the tow float around my waist tightly and venture down towards the shore.

As a small wave laps over my toes, it is slightly colder than I expected, especially for the time of year, but I suppose I don’t have anything to compare it to. A ripple of doubt enters my brain, but I determinately don’t let it stop me. Hauling the legs of my heavying wetsuit deeper, the cold rush begins radiating through my body. I know the more I try to ease myself in, the more torturous it will be, so once the water has reached waist-height, I dive in. Instant brain freeze. It is like I have just crunched half a glass of ice all at once, for even my teeth immediately ache with cold. I move quickly, my wetsuit filling with water and my body heat warming it to create a thermal layer like a blanket against the refreshing water.

As I begin to move in a frog-like manner, my goggles keep fogging, forcing me to painfully dunk my head under every so often so that I can see where I’m going. But I’m so glad I do. Below me, huge swarming shoals of tiny fish float magically like fairy dust. Most likely whitebait, their scales shimmer in the sunlight, glinting and darting wildly in retraction as I part their paths with spade shaped hands. I’m reminded of my Year 8 Science book when we had to draw magnetic field diagrams circling in all directions. It is a truly magical sight, prompting me to float non-disturbingly like a starfish to watch them in complete awe. I tune into the frequency of the salt water fizzing and crackling in my ears and the sand below me gives the illusion of squiggles like a child's colouring book as the tide brushes the grains along the bottom. I wish I could’ve captured this all on video, but I have to hope my visual memory will hold onto it.

Suddenly realising that my brief pause has caused my body temperature to drop, I break into a fast breaststroke, hands and feet pushing away the water, causing ripples all around me as if I am a big raindrop ricocheting larger circles from my centre. The gentle waves act like sighs or small calm breaths, and I begin to notice the comfort I am gifted by their embrace. I realise how re-energised my body and mind feel from the sea’s healing and rejuvenating qualities, and I hope to soak them up as much as possible.

When I’m swimming, I like to create goals or checkpoints in the sea for a more physical and mental challenge. I use the bright yellow buoys that are conveniently positioned across the stretch of the beach to guide me. As I near my first checkpoint, the chain of the buoy clinks gently under the water as the current moves it from side to side. I high five it with a sense of accomplishment like I’m doing a relay race on sports day and notice that printed in bold black type, it reads ‘8-knots bathing’. I wonder what it means - a fishing reference, I presume. I continue to my next checkpoint, which is on a sixty-degree angle from the first towards the main beach. I challenge myself to do front crawl instead, which makes me seriously out of breath as my arms propell rapidly through the water like the wind turbines far out on the horizon. When I get to the second buoy, I tap its hollow body and return to breaststroke to allow some respite from my own tough challenge. Slowly filling my lungs with deep gasps, the gentle current whisks me towards the third and final buoy before I turn around to swim back to the beach.

Ninety degrees to my right, the wind is noticeably stronger this way, and small ripples lap at my neck, constantly slapping my chin and threatening to enter my mouth. I try to time my breaths to align with the waves and my movements, but it takes a bit of adjustment and so my throat, tongue and lips adopt a seriously salty taste as if I’m slurping oysters. I can feel my body getting tired, the cold and effort slowing me. But I can’t give up. Passing the groyne, nearing the shore, I give myself one final front crawl challenge to exit the water at full speed. Brown seaweed swishes below me like wet hair spiralling in the bath, and I observe the shoreline pebbles gradually becoming magnified. As I lift my gaze, a layer of heat bouncing off the surface creates a hazy mirage as I regain my human stature. And finally, standing up on my own two feet once more, I wobble exhaustedly up the beach, feeling proud of my efforts and injected with a sense of relief and contentedness.

My mind and body feel so far away from everyday life in the city, like a natural state of euphoric calmness. Licking the tangy salt from my sea-kissed lips, I allow a fulfilled smile to emerge across my face - this is the taste of the outskirts. After trudging up the beach, I reach my towel and ease myself down onto the pebbles. As I begin to naturalise my breath, a final thought manifests itself.

I am finally home.