'On Not Wanting to Swim in Winter' by Brid McGinley

You sit on the bench, scan the sun-teased beach, pull your puffed coat against goose-bumped skin and watch gulls hover above waves that whoosh and whisper across the sand. You clutch your elbows, rock to the rhythm of the ebb and flow, your gaze locked on the broken blue boundary of distant hills. You close your eyes, hear the wind whine, a heron shriek. This was a mistake; in a sudden intrusion of summer colour, you see tiny feet dancing on lacy foam. There is no forgetting.

A car door bangs. Sally, dark-robed, resolute in neoprene-clad feet, gloved hand waving.

‘We’re mad,’ she says, delighted.

You stand. Your coat puddles at your ankles, east wind scours your shoulders, frigid sand crunches under your toes. They say we can survive anything—whoever they are—and you see doctors mouthing empty truths, see friends who imagine healing means not remembering, family whose silence drowns you in sadness.

Then Sally reaches out her hand.

Together you step over the first bone-chilling wave. Thigh deep before the next breaker crashes, you wade through churning water, watch waves rally and rush; you wait, your skin tightening, then push off into the trough, gasp as water flows over your shoulders, feel the suck and pull of the undertow, taste salt on your face, water or tears. You ride the swell, stroke after stroke, your dipping head surges, and trailing water creases in your widening slipstream. Time is suspended; all that matters is each sharp, chill intake of breath.

And if you found space for thought, you would see the white coffin against the dark soil. And you would know they are wrong, there are some things you can’t survive. But for now, braced against the curling, stretching, open-mouthed maw, there is no time to think.