Too Late for Skateboarding?

           Last Sunday, I turned down an offer to have a go on a skateboard but accepted another to try an electric bike. Subconsciously, I suppose, it was hard for me to imagine a future scenario in which a skateboard might be useful to me. Easier to foresee the advantages of the bike. Yes, old age approaches and, with it, the tendency to assess a proposal more carefully. An electric bike, not a skateboard, is the logical progression towards a mobility scooter and a last chance to look cool on one’s ride.

          The past week has been spent partly in the capital, supporting a general-purpose protest rally against government policies (or the lack thereof) and partly in Plymouth, mingling with holidaymakers while entertaining a visiting relative. The contrast between existential crises and escapist distractions is stark. On the one hand, a section of the populace is fighting for social justice and a green future while, on the other, the intensity of focus is more on ice cream. And all the while, in the background, there is an unseemly scrap for the leadership of the governing party being fought by two candidates who have made no mention of any topic other than the one that preoccupies the masters of their fate (their party members), tax cuts. You couldn’t make it up! Well, you don’t have to: this is reality.

          Stereotypes abound everywhere. Yesterday, we took a seasonal ferry that plies the tourist route from Plymouth to the ‘unspoilt’ Cornish fishing village of Cawsand. The ferry operating company seems to have decided that it is really in the entertainment business, nostalgia being a crucial ingredient. When all the passengers are aboard, a swivel-eyed, dishevelled old geezer with a messy head of hair topped by a sailor’s cap makes his way to the cockpit, the window of which has a sign saying, “Skipper only”. We half expect him to address us in pirate dialect, but he remains aloof and fires up the diesel. Meanwhile, the other crew member comes round selling tickets-on-a-roll that might have been printed in the 1950s. He is a personable young Liverpudlian who has perfected a routine of friendly, responsive banter that sets the ladies’ hearts a-flutter and makes their menfolk feel like leaden-footed land-lubbers. He does a good job of making the short journey feel like a jolly holiday excursion – and of ensuring the ‘tips’ bucket gets filled before we all step ashore. Observing all this, I saw echoes of the pantomimical style of the government that is presently in command of the British ship of state, but at least the players in this vignette are doing a properly co-ordinated job of steering us safely to an agreed destination.

          Back in London, while the try-out on the electric bike was urged on me by a friend and contemporary, the offer of a go on a skateboard was made by an American chap who looks and behaves younger than his forty-odd years. He joined our small lunch party, during which he opened our eyes to another stereotype – our view of Rwandan politics. Having lived and worked there for the last fifteen years (in the field of socio-economics), he had observed that, despite its relatively authoritarian form of government, political corruption is not tolerated and there are strong elements of consensual social responsibility – rooted, perhaps, in traditional tribal and village governance traditions – which today’s western socialist movements could only dream of achieving. The policy of shipping asylum seekers there – or anywhere – is a separate discussion.

          The slip-slap of flip-flops, the profusion of paddle-boards and the excited squealing of children playing in water all tell us that the school holidays have begun. Summer is well under way, but I am feeling edgy not relaxed. Politically, economically and ecologically the world is on the edge of a precipice. I worry that it may fall off before my electric bike years have even started.

 

Beside The Seaside

          The village of Coningsby, in deepest, flattest Lincolnshire, is familiar to me through family connections and I can vouch for the fact that, beyond lending its name to the adjacent RAF base (home to our deadliest fighter jets), it is an otherwise unremarkable place – unless, like me, you are a connoisseur of Lincolnshire sausages or stuffed chine, a local delicacy, both of which are specialities of the uncompromisingly traditional village butchers. But, this week, Coningsby hit the headlines when Britain’s all-time highest temperature (40.3 degrees Celsius) was recorded there. I sweltered vicariously while, here in Plymouth, with the mercury maxing briefly at a balmy 30 degrees, our seaside location induced a sort of Mediterranean ambience, bolstered by a re-acquaintance with watermelons which are currently on offer at the local supermarket.

          Not that I spent the heatwave lounging around in the shade eating slices of melon and drinking tumblers of iced tea. There was work to be done. The local XR groups had planned a protest march and I was part of the logistic support crew, so I sweated it out in a van. The theme of the protest was to highlight the rising seas and the deterioration of our oceans’ bio-systems and to point to the part played by the oil-extraction industry. To this end, the march wound its way through the city centre, through the Barbican (which throngs with holidaymakers) and to its destination, an oil-processing depot, where it was met with a line of stern-looking police officers armed with a court injunction that severely criminalises any form of trespass on the premises or hindrance to its entrance. The injunction was not breached but, even if it had been, the directors of the business were not present to get the message. I hope they saw it on the evening news, along with all the other climate-change-related items. In any case, the extremely warm weather has amplified XR’s call: climate catastrophe is here and now, not somewhere else and at some point in the future. Does anyone still think that a target of net zero by 2050 is going to save the situation? I won’t be around by then, but it is surely a government’s duty to plan for those who will.

          On a lighter note, the hot weather is favourable for my new swimming regime. Following my self-induced ‘scare’, I have decided to swim regularly, to build confidence and improve technique. The former is easy when the water is warm and welcoming; the latter is more complicated and requires application. I admit to having assumed knowledge and capabilities beyond my actual talent and experience, so, following the advice of a friend who knows what she is talking about, I am attempting to enlighten myself. “If all else fails, read the instructions” – so goes the aphorism which derives, perhaps, from the tendency to laziness that makes us look for shortcuts. But who can blame us when we are faced with examples such as the four-page, A5 leaflet that accompanied a small electric kettle I bought recently for only £12? Topics include how to unpack it, how to prepare it for use, how to use it, incomprehensible technical specifications, warnings about safety and several paragraphs clearly intended to be quoted in a court of law in the event of a civil case being brought against the manufacturer. I deserved a nice cup of tea after wading through all that.

          But the first port of call for knowledge on “how to?” these days is YouTube and, when it comes to swimming, there is no shortage of naff videos. My instinct for narrowing them down is to start by eliminating those that have irritating American or Australian narrators, though when it comes down to it, I really shouldn’t care as long as they show me how best to propel myself through the waters that are rising around Plymouth and may soon be lapping around Coningsby.

 

It's All Going Swimmingly?

          It was around this time last year that I capsized my kayak in deep, fast-flowing water. The boat has remained on dry land ever since. But “never say never”, as the saying goes: I may yet haul it out of the garage and renew my acquaintance with the perils of seafaring, before eventually resorting to eBay to recoup my investment. Especially considering my latest aquatic challenge.

          We live on the water’s edge, overlooking a small cove that has a boatyard on one side and a public slipway on the other. In between them is a small stretch known as Commando Beach, its upper reach unattractively composed of disintegrating concrete slabs. Both its name and appearance are legacies of its former service as a military asset. Now, it serves as a launching spot for all manner of recreational craft. And the current heatwave has highlighted the fact that people are attracted to the nearest stretch of water for all sorts of other activities. These last few days, I have watched in awe as resourceful locals squeeze their families, dogs, deckchairs, paddle-boards and BBQ equipment on to the tiny beach at low tide and gradually retreat to the tarmac apron as it rises, from where they continue to lap up the sun and make noisy, splashy forays into the cooling sea. Emboldened by the sight of all this joyful frolicking, I felt the beginnings of a resolution stir within me. I was about to gird my loins for a dip in the briny.

          But there was a mental hurdle to overcome. Last year, after years of not swimming, I dipped into the sea a couple of times and, on each occasion, emerged swiftly, gasping for breath and feeling anything but joyful. I didn’t bother again. Instead, I concluded that just because other people appear to enjoy something, doesn’t mean it’s my cup of tea. Besides, I thought, I know how to swim and have probably had my fill. Didn’t I spend a good deal of my early teens on the beaches of the Mediterranean? Been there, done that. And so, I hung up my trunks. But the shame of capitulation has gnawed at my consciousness and the door to boldness, which had remained ajar, was pushed open after some encouragement by a friend and neighbour – an habitual sea-swimmer – who assured me that the temperature of the water is currently ideal. That afternoon, I donned my once-fashionable swimwear and eased myself into what felt like glacial meltwater for another go at healthy aquatic exercise (I had recently seen Wim Hof’s TV show).

          I know that the trick is to acclimatise gradually to the temperature, which is what I attempted to do. But, as I swam out of my depth, my breathing did not keep pace with my progress. It became shorter, whether because of the cold or a lack of lung-power made no difference: I began to doubt my ability and, before long, doubt turned to worry, then worry turned to mild panic. Now, the remedy for panic is controlled breathing but, since I was finding that difficult, the panic-loop intensified. I tried turning onto my back to float and relax but gave up on that before I could make it work. I decided then to make a desperate dash back to the slipway, using what was left of my physical and mental resources. As I toiled interminably, my breathing turned to noisy gasping and my mind turned to the sad irony of drowning within yards of home, while my OH was away for a couple of days and would return to find me gone!

          The episode was frightening but also instructive. Yes, I can swim but, having not done so for a while, I no longer have the muscles or lungs for it. The remedy is to swim more frequently, which is what I have since resolved to do, hoping that I might even come to enjoy it one day. Meanwhile, it feels good to be alive and, as I went to get my bike from the garage this morning, I was eyeing up the kayak.