Last Friday's swim had the distinct feel of the last chapter, "In which Christopher Robin gives a Pooh Party, and we say goodbye", for the time had come for dear Sara (who has featured as chief mischief maker in almost every post herein) to take to the high seas for the whole winter in crossing the Atlantic (!) Amazing what some people will do to get out of winter swimming eh?
To commemorate this important event, Sara arrived sporting the latest in nautical tattoo art, recently supplied by David as a parting gift:
The closing ceremony began with the customary group dry dive, though with a notably subdued air in the sad circumstances:
The original dry dive? |
In addition we had a surprise splash from <fanfare> the lovely John from the Lido Cafe, making his cold swim debut at 6.7 degrees - madness! There's no way I would start winter swimming so late in the season, heavens no! Though of course I wasn't going to tell John that. Anyway he is clearly cut from a sterner, steelier block and made the whole thing look dead easy:
Back in the changing rooms for final showers and giggling so high-pitched it hertz...
To add to excitement Sara had requested a pirate theme to the morning - cue some interesting interpiratations:
Helen High Water |
David shivers his timbers |
And of course stacks of home-baked cake at the ever tolerant Lido Cafe - including chocolate guinness cake in absentia from Candy, currently in Manchester - not only delivered by her obliging partner but actually baked by her dutiful daughter. We salute such dedication and delegation for our delectation.
The best way to communicake |
Who says swimmers don't know how to behave in the cafe? |
Then Helen read a lovely poem, 'Sea Fever' by John Masefield (sea below) for Sara and we all clapped at the end.
All that remained was a couple of samples of lido water to keep Sara going on her long voyage:
Vial #1: 'A little bit of Brockwell Lido' |
Vile #2: 'Special lido water' |
"Oh no - what is this special lido water?" |
Guy's expression says it all |
Sea Fever
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
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