Infringement

03Jul08

Last night I went on a quick mercy dash into the Big City, in order to console and humour a friend in need. Like any good deed, it went punished.

The actual effort of moving myself from lawn to Malmö Central was a bit of a terror in itself: what with getting on my bike in the sveltering midday heat, and then sitting for hours on a train packed with loud bumpkins. And then there was the city itself, or more like, the typical experience of ordering not enough food and to many bad rosés, bumping in to at least five unwarranted exes and spending an ill-adviced fortune in the bookshop. What really finished me off though, was the repeat performance of getting back, in the still of night, only slightly tipsy and really in no condition to be peddaling along narrow country lanes.

All in all, like all great scroungings, the trips was an opportunity to reflect on the pros of staying put in the shade of the pear tree with my book. Consequently, this morning when I got up, I was in a mood to embrace all that is solitude and quiet. And what better way to do this than by getting naked in crashing waves?

Towel in one hand, widebrimmed on head, sandals flopping, I headed down to the spot of coastline consecrated to morning ablutions. There is an age old set of rules and traditions regulating behaviour at this spot. You wait, of course, until any previous bather has left. You are perfectly allright to go in the water nude, since the next, in turn, wait at a respectful distance. You may nod, robed, as you pass each other, but you avert your eyes and most importantly: you never ever break the morning quiet even by a quick hello.

(Or actually, my mother introduced herself to another lady for the first time last week: they have been passing each other at that spot for thirty years and though it time to remark on the weather, what with the current gale).

The waves were crashing and my hair was all twirled like a rope in the wind, the sun laying its first tentative fingers on the broken shells and the seaweed.  It really was a day for new beginnings and reliable tradition. Secure in the knowledge that our village does not willingly admit any intruder who does not abide by the sacrosanct laws of dipping, or that, in the case of newcomers, they are still in bed at the appropriate hour and only turn up in garish shorts and loudspeakers later in the day, when I am once more perched on an even remoter stretch of coast, I stripped on the cold and slimy rock and started to submerge myself. But at this, what should have been the most divine moment, I hear a voice behind me.

I had been invaded. Behind me – not the 500 meters or more customarily granted, but more like one step -behind me stood a woman in garish shorts and trainers! She was sweating from her jog. She had a dog. The dog had a lolling tounge. The woman spoke to me again. Asking what the temperature was like.

 I muttered, very much like the bearded variety of fisherman, something unfriendly. She persevered and warned me about the currents. I shook my head. At this point, she started to take her shoes and socks of. Even though I was in shock, it was only too clear what was going to happen. Damn straight: she started to get in next to me.

Now, you need to understand that the water in the village bay rarely gets above 17 degrees celcius, even on a hot august day. This was an early morning, with an unfriendly wind. Which meant that for most of our conversation I had been, LITERALLY, frozen in midmovement. Dipping, as far as I am concerned, should be short and brief and strenghtening, like any good affair of the heart. It should not be fringed with dillying and dallying and having your reproductive organs turn sundae because of some rude old bag needing to vent halfway through!

The force of nature on one hand, and the natural modesty of a not yet tanned body on the other: I had no choice but to get out, and stroll over to my towel, doing my best to ignore the lolling of the dog and the conversation of the owner. With one last glace at her  – bare footed sure, but in a horrible shocking pink two-piece that was less modest than any natural nudity, I stalked of…muttering very much like the fisherman, of the changing times and all things evil.

But then again, while I blame nature and the jogger for my newly puce thighs, I can also thankt the former for the lack of tackle and pipe in my hand. Had it been less cold, less inclement, I might have gone the way of old men and stood, firmly naked in the face of whatever beast or bitch might watch. This would, in time, have made me either a spectacle or cantacerous, or both. Instead, I find that I simply must give in to the onsweep of civilization, not standing firm like the last man aboard the sinking ship, but more like a swimsuited rat leaving the same:

1) I am buying a one-piece swimsuit

2) I am going to find a new swimming place for mornings

3) and perhaps I will book a week somewhere balmy, next year.

Filed under: The Great Outdoors: Hiking, Bathing, Scenery   |  Leave a Comment
Tags: cramped conditions, dogs, horror!, lolling tounge, nudity, swimming