Great, Recurring Foe

Historically, one of my great, recurring foes has been the water that covers most of the Earth's surface; once in it, I find I can survive reasonably well, but mode-of-entry has always been a quandary to me.

This is Wied iz-Zurrieq, a swimming gorge on the south coast of Malta.

For my first swim, I entered via the ladder, so that was OK. But when we walked round the corner to a different part of the gorge, there was no ladder, only a merciless edge.

I approached tentatively, like an ill-fated insect in a nature documentary. "I can't really dive", I announced sheepishly — and accidentally loud enough to cause the surrounding sunbathers to look — then fell sideways into the water like a clay statue.

Poised in embryo beneath the water now, a slow sting confirming itself to the left side of my body, I took a swift inventory of the oxygen in my lungs: enough to swim a deceptive distance from my point of entry? Perhaps; I gave it a shot. My great fraud, however, resurfaced little more than two metres away. 

A nearby German mother, whose pony-tailed son had all afternoon been launching headlong into the water with run-ups from high places, appeared not so much amused as annoyed by my peculiar brand of attention-seeking. 

I did all I could do in the situation: I laughed like Scooby Doo and sploshed onward.

(Shelley, ever wise, enters only via ladders.)