The Skinny Dip That WAS!

Regular readers will remember that this time last year I blogged about how the present unpleasantness had caused The North East Skinny Dip to be cancelled, including a video of me dipping but clothed.

 

I spent last Saturday afternoon at a Sandgate Morris reunion and Silver Wedding Anniversary with friends in Wylam.  There was food, drink (soft for me as I was driving), lots of chat and I was made to join in dancing Grenoside and a Circassian circle. 

After dropping off Mrs Leftfoot at her house I came home, changed into warmer clothes, loaded the car and drove up to Druridge Bay.  For the first time I arrived in darkness.  But the welcome tent and marshals were wonderful and guided me to the camping field where I parked up and turned the back seat and boot into a bed with cushions and duvets.

 

It was a still warm evening.

I picked up my supper of corned beef sandwiches and buttered malt-loaf and, with a torch for safety on the rough bits, went down to the beach.

The sea is utterly different at night.

The moon was almost full but cloud shaded.

I could see a few tiny lights from other people’s torches, Cresswell village twinkling in the distance to the South, the flash of a lighthouse to the North (Farne Islands perhaps?) and behind me to the West the glow of streetlights from Ashington or some other Northumbrian village.

I walked down as close to the sea as I dared, avoiding puddles.

It was just a darkness with white wave breaking surf just visible.

Back at the top of the beach I sat on one of the tank traps to eat my supper.

The moon moved into a gap in the clouds and momentarily some of the sea was a shivering skein of silver.

 

My phone woke me at 5am.  I removed my clothes and put on my big fleecy dressing gown, huge fleece coat and crocs.  That coat was a friend when Ferretfingers was in hospital last year, being a groundsheet, blanket or a pillow when I slept on the floor of his cubicle.  My beach bag contained a bath-sheet, neck-to-floor long sleeved towelling robe, fleece rug and car keys (safely fixed to the handle). Off I went back along the track towards the Visitor Centre, but stopped by the lake.

 

I’d never realised before that still water looks different at night to the sea.

The lake was reflecting the bright starlit sky and shining like a pewter tray.

Beyond it, on the hill, the road was a chain of headlights as hundreds more people arrived.

When I moved off I spotted something in my torchlight:  a hedgehog, surprised no doubt by the number of people wandering through its territory at that time of day (or night).

The hi-vized marshals were up already directly foot and car traffic.

 

When I got to the beach I lay on my back and gazed at the stars:  we seldom see them in the suburbs because of the street and house lights.  Eventually the stars faded in approaching dawn and cloud cover and the world changed from shades of grey to colour.  People were no longer wraiths or shadows lit by little torches.  The beach filled up and I went and stood amongst them.

 

For the first time I was dipping solo, but it didn’t matter because you soon start chatting with people nearby;  in my case a bloke from Leeds and a lass from Suffolk, although she sounded as if she was from the Netherlands.

“Doesn’t your husband fancy doing this?” asked the bloke from Leeds.

“The world isn’t ready for that” I replied.

 

Then at 06.30 there was the countdown to the strip and everyone threw off their robes and ran, dashed, trotted or walked sedately down into the crashing waves.

One lady was pushed down in a special beach buggy for wheelchair users so she could enjoy every element of the occasion.

Another lady touched my heart when I noticed she was wearing a stoma bag.  Phil had one after they removed his tumour and most of his large intestine: it gave us six precious months of good life, until the cancer showed up in his liver.  For a moment I wanted to stop and tell her how brave she was, but then thought “Why shouldn’t she?”  A stoma should never stop the wearer from doing anything they wish (except farting as Phil once remarked).  Also, I’m not sure “my late husband used one of those” would be the most positive message.

 

The one thing the North East Skinny Dip teaches you is that nobody’s body is either perfect or disgusting; whatever its shape, size, colour or condition. 

We are all various shades of brown.

We all have lumps, bumps and bits that wobble or dangle and it doesn’t matter a damn.

Because when we run into the North Sea at dawn we all scream like three year olds as the waves crash into us and throw us around.

And we are all beautiful.

 

Image courtesy of Cloud Dancer Photography

A reminder

If you’re enjoying my Tales of Chateau Midden, please consider making a donation to Mind through this link.  Some of my family and friends (and maybe some of yours) have benefitted from their services.  The present unpleasantness means they’re needed more than ever.

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/Brenda-Boyd1