Almanac Life: Last swim
Image: Mickey Randall
Life is boredom then fear.
Or, at least, according to the poet Philip Larkin. Fear lurks just beyond the horizon’s curve with the crawling truth that eventually everything will succumb. I’m certain I’ve played my final game of footy, and probably cricket too. These are aggregated losses, joining the ever-lengthening string of diminutive deaths.
Instead, I now run thirty kilometres a week, partly driven by knowing of people whose knees or hips have called time on this. Every morning (lately under the cape of darkness), because I can, I stumble out onto the tarmac and trot beachward. I often wonder if I’m running towards a destination or from a spectre. The disquieting thought lingers: what if this is all halted? One day, of course, it will be.
It’s easy to spot the opening to a sequence. A baby’s first steps, a first ever goal in a footy match, or a first love. These are commencements we can celebrate.
I love the first swim of the summer as the world opens up when the lengthy, lethargic days stretch out like a fluttering ribbon. While not endless, we sometimes pretend to ourselves that they might be.
For some pursuits, the last in a sequence can also be simple to note. Grand finals, New Year’s Eve, our last day on holiday. But for other activities, how do we reconcile not knowing which is the last? I like to think there’ll often be one more.
There’s always next year, until there isn’t, so I appreciate our beach. When I say swimming, not actual freestyle or breaststroke or anything as deliberate and exhausting as that. Just standing about in the greenish-blue shallows.
Late March and under the slanting sun, towelling off on Glenelg North’s crunchy sand, I promise myself that, with the next temperature spike, I’ll be back down in the ocean. And then, abruptly, summer vanishes and, exquisite as it is, autumn arrives but swimming’s done. Some years, that anticipated next time just doesn’t come and I look back with minor regret.
To squeeze these moments like a ripe orange, I plunge in. Claire tip-toes along the sand and inches her way out, grimacing with every step. Waist-deep, we chat and look around us. My eyes dart about for stingrays and fins. I gaze north towards the West Beach Sailing Club and then south at the Marina. Flinging myself into a marching wave, the salty stuff blasts by as, eyes open, I scan the corrugated floor.
Upright with water cascading off me, it’s a phantasmagoric instant and once more the beach, that narrow, ever-pulsing connector of ocean and earth, nudges me into gratitude and tranquility.
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About Mickey Randall
Now whip it into shape/ Shape it up, get straight/ Go forward, move ahead/ Try to detect it, it's not too late/ To whip it, whip it good
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Cracking read Mickey! My swims in the ocean are getting fewer and further between unfortunately. I try to make the effort but something always gets in the way but I’m looking forward to the next first swim.
As always Mickey I enjoyed your article. I could easily be straddled inside your speedos as you so beautifully describe the body of a man surfacing from the body of the ocean.
As for lasts, I was reminded of Paul Kelly’s mantra in relation to songwriting: ‘One More Song’,
Life is so unknowable, and I guess that is partly what keeps us interested.
I have often pondered – and attempted to articulate – the concept of “lasts”, which in my opinion are more unknowable than “firsts”.
For example, when was the last time I held the hand of my youngest son as we crossed the road when he was a child? I wish I had known then that it was the final time, as I would have taken an extra moment or two to savour that precious moment.
Enjoyed this, Mickey. Thanks.
If this were a KD song theme, then the obvious song lyric would be:
Well this could be the last time
This could be the last time
Maybe the last time
I don’t know. Oh no. Oh no
Thanks MR, another ripper! In reference to water, especially the sea, I hope I am still swimming late into my life. Your choice of the word, phantasmagoric is spot on. Numinous is the other-worldly word I would use.
Your bigger point, as Smokie has discussed in his comment, is also sadly where the wheel is heading. At 61 (soon to be 62) I’m thinking about the end of my working life. While it’s years away, I’m all too appreciative of how time goes in the blink of an eye.
Cheers
Another great read Mickey, keep squeezing those moments!
Thanks to everyone for reading and commenting. Appreciate your thoughts on Paul Kelly, the Stones, crossing the road with a child and actual swimming. Go well.
Geeze that’s good writing Mickey.
Thanks very much Barry. I do love a short, singular essay! Appreciate your thoughts.
Mickey the running part resonates big time – now the knees are long gone I miss it big time my biggest sporting regret is never running a marathon I didn’t want to miss a game re footy of course injuries that next year never came,it is said you should be running about a 100 k a week if you were training properly I used to do that comfortably.I did the City Bay in 42 min 14 sec now days I’d struggle driving to better that time
Thanks Rulebook. Just after we gave footy away a mate and I used to run along the esplanade a few mornings a week until he told me he had to give it away as his knees were cooked. I was shocked as we weren’t even in our mid-thirties. At that point I vowed to run/jog while I could.
Following parkrun the other week, I had an epiphany during which I realised that it was silly to compare myself unfavourably to all the young fellas scampering around but instead be inspired by the 70-somethings who run/walk regularly and aim to be like them when the time arrives.
Gee, 42 minutes for the City Bay is brisk!