I’m already on the beach before I notice them. I am thinking about the granola bar which I might have brought from home. The sun is loud in my eyes as I thrash clumsily through the shallows. Towards the end of the fifth lap my arm muscles begin to burn. Though there’s hardly any wind, the sea is choppy. I slip my sundress over my head, heel my trainers off, and swim my usual six laps of the bay. I leave my towel, water bottle, and book in a pool of shade next to the rocks. We argued about what should be made for supper, aware that this was code for a much deeper frustration. I could not swim easily with his eyes on me. Sean could not concentrate for watching me. It is a decent hike from the road, through fields and a small forest. I choose to swim here because it is always empty. I think about Jonah in the belly of the whale all those slick intestines sliding against his skin. My feet are ludicrous: two fat slugs squirming at the end of my shins. I wear neoprene booties and step carefully. In winter it is less pungent but slippier. The kelp flies rise in consternation when I pick my way through. In summer it smells like soy sauce and warm piss. A thick band of seaweed separates the sand from the sea beyond. Instead, I swim here, in a tiny cove cut off by boulders on one side and a sheer cliff face on the other. If I simply must-Sean’s own words-he’d rather I swam at the main strand, cautiously, in full view of the lifeguards’ station. Sean would rather I didn’t swim outdoors. Sean is a worrier the sort of man who takes a wet wipe to every apple he eats, just to be on the safe side. Sean does not think death is something to joke about. “If I’m going to die an undignified death,” I say, “I’d prefer not to have an audience.” “No one will notice if you’re drowning,” he says. This story by Jan Carson was one of the final shortlisted entries for the prize in 2021. Helter Skelter is a proud partner of the Desperate Literature Prize for Short Fiction.
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