Well everypawdy, the unthinkable has happened.
For those of you who know me well, you are aware of how much I deplore swimming; in fact, all water related activities. But we’ll focus on swimming for now for if you recall, in my first blog, I fell in the pool. How could I ever recover from this?
That is what I used to think.
Yesterday. January 16th. A Monday. It was a warm morning, and rapidly getting hotter. The sun was fierce and was slowly making it’s way around the the headlands of Mosman, finally reaching Sirius Cove.
Sirius Cove is a quiet reserve at the end of a long cul de sac. It appears somewhat bushy, but opens up to a wide, green expanse of grass, leading down towards a small, but appropriately sized dog beach. There are minimal waves and, depending on the tide, some rocks on the far right. The water is clear, and reliant on the sun’s shifting refraction, you’ll get varying clarities of blue or green. The beach and the grass are separated by a sloping, stone wall. One thats scaling is too frightening for little dogs, but endless fun for larger ones. Overwhelming, the view yesterday was sapphirine blue water, peppered with boats beyond and the Eastern Suburbs beyond that.
It was here that I arranged to meet with Cleo and Harvey. Cleo is wild. She immediately ran for the water, leaping in after a small green ball with close to no inhibitions. Harvey, also a seasoned swimmer, is a slightly more discerning beach goer, but a far more demanding sand thrower I did learn.
The point I’m making is, with these two, I felt like a fool that I was too scared, or uncertain, or apprehensive of the water. I might add, I’m larger than both and significantly younger at the same time. Come on, Jerry, I thought to myself. And then this happened…
The outcome? A bunch of beach bad asses.