Salty Swims

4 minute read

Who would have thought it? Who would have ever considered that Abigail would be unimpressed by where she swims in London? I would have never imagined a day where my outdoor swims would be unimpressive, flat and almost unappealing. Never. I love where I swim. I’ve written about the joy it brings me and how soothing it can be during troubled times. So, what’s changed? I’ve just got back from a two week break to St Ann, the garden parish of Jamaica. Every day I swam at a heavenly beach in Runaway Bay. Inevitably, when you fly to the most beautiful island in the world (I am very biased) and return to your normal swim spot, it feels like nothing can ever be as impressive, wonderful and special as swimming in the Caribbean Sea. Nada.

My, my, my! How things change.

Suddenly, the British clouds that once fascinated me are boring; the buildings that shone beautifully in the rising sun are ugly, robot-like, and imposing.

Where is the endless turquoise sea and the brightest sunshine I’ve seen in donkeys? Where is the rhythmical sound of the crashing Caribbean waves? Where is the gorgeous golden sand that sticks to my suntan lotion? Where’s the crusted sea salt on my skin that I refuse to wash off as I bask in the sun?

Gone.

I left it all behind in Jamaica a few days ago.

I cried silent tears as my mum cautiously rolled her study 4-wheel truck down the steep hill from her home. Just as they did on my arrival, mum’s six dogs barked loudly in farewell. We swapped vehicles in the church yard, and I drove us in my rental vehicle to Sangster Airport, Montego Bay, about an hour and half from my mum’s home.

I was dragged back to real life on a delayed 8-hour 50-minute flight to London Gatwick and then battled through rush hour on public transport with all my luggage (never a good idea on reflection). The very next day, I was back where I usually swim and the disappointing reality of it all was too much for me.

The sun has rudely abandoned all of the early morning swimmers, leaving us with low hanging clouds and far too much silence. It’s too quiet here. The disruptive Egyptian geese that usually cause loud amusing havoc in the mornings, have forgone us for better bodies of water. At least they can fly; they have choices and no solid work commitments. I’m stuck with this vast expanse of water that a few weeks ago used to enthral me. The gentle rippling of the water has no life, the air is flat and everything that surrounds me looks far too clinical. The crumbling pontoon, the moss-covered blue mat that stops swimmers slipping into the water and the symmetrical apartments that loom over us: everything is too structured and unnatural.

I’m miserable.

Life isn’t fair.

Jet lag is a drag.

My brain has taken on a heavy fogginess that early nights and daily naps cannot seem to shake. Ever since I stepped off the 787 Dreamliner, I can’t hear properly and all my senses have dialled down several notches, leaving me unable to smell and taste properly. Everything I lay my eyes on lacks lustre and appeal. Am I having sunlight withdrawal symptoms? Adult rationalising tells me this is just the holiday blues, intensified by the sudden shift from Eastern Standard Time to British Summer Time.* How long is jet lag supposed to last for again?

Heading out for a morning swim was supposed to lift my spirits and make me feel normal again, but as I stand on the pontoon, part of me doesn’t even want to get in. Vivid memories of plunging into 28-degree sea water for long training swims surface. Every day, I picked a different course: swim out far beyond the bare bones of a very old pier, turn right and swim against the current and dark choppy waves or turn left and swim with the tide towards the clear turquoise sea partings. I really did get the best training in Jamaica. Ignoring the current and waves, the sea salt added the perfect resistance to whatever stoke I adopted.

I do eventually settle into some swimming and although it is much easier than swimming in Jamaica, when I’m out and dressed, I don’t feel much better.

The vibe is dead.

On my way home, I tell myself to give it a couple more swims and sleeps before raising any alarm bells. It’s totally normal; it’s just a sign that that I am still clutching on to my sweet Jamaican swim memories. Soon I’ll come back down to earth and see the beauty of swimming outdoors in London again.

Fingers crossed.

*Jamaica is 6 hours behind the UK during the summer.