beneath the surface: falmouth bay

today i ran to the sea and all i thought about was death. there could be lots of ways to die; slipping on the dark slimy rocks, being buried under a landslide, an unusually strong current might carry me out to sea or some brave marine creature might rise from the depths and pull me under. but what i'm really worried about is being hit by a golf ball. i know it sounds silly but i do find them on the beach and when i met arthur, it was one of the first things i asked him. that day there were two, nestled beside each other like eggs on a rocky ledge but he told me he'd never seen one land. he's more interested in finding a good one and selling it to somebody.

all the other ways of dying are part of the risks you take when visiting the sea. but being hit in the head by a golf ball and dying on the beach feels wrong. it would be unlucky.

a flight of about twenty cormorants make a hasty departure. their feet drag across the glassy water leaving a trail that starts in one place but explodes outwards like a head of cow parsley. the beach is empty. only one person has been here before me and he had gone to look in a cave. i say 'he' because when i place my shoe inside one of the footprints they are at least three sizes bigger.

i enter the water with a lot of swearing. paddling next to me is a solitary shearwater, but i can't work out what type of shearwater he is. i wonder why he didn't leave with the cormorants. he doesn't seem to mind my presence and my words wash over him. there's no way of comparing our foot size so i don't know for sure that he is a he, i just think he is. i swim out to my rock and he dives down. what if he's a malicious shearwater and is planning to attack me from below?

it's colder than marble and i'm still swearing under my breath. everything feels low. the sky hangs low and the birds fly low and the shearwater re-emerges. the water is clear and the sand has returned. my feet sink into it like a thick carpet and leave a set of more hurried footprints. i wash my feet in the foot pool but it involves a lot of hopping and i know that the man who showed it to me it would disapprove.

a little puff of wind catches my trousers and blows them into the foot pool. with a lightening quick reaction i didn't know i was capable of, i grab them before they go under. they are mostly dry but as i step into them i marvel at the way they have got wet. from the crotch all down the inside of one leg it's saturated. as well as being fascinated i'm also a little bit annoyed as i'm freezing. but how did they manage to get wet like this? on the rock they were all scrunched up in a clump so surely they should be damp in small patches. it looks like i've wet myself and takes seconds to soak through to my pants, so it feels that way too. it's cold and uncomfortable but this edge of comedy brings a hesitant smile to my face.

(ps. from the sounds of things and from someone who knows, i've got all the birds wrong!)

this poem was hidden in a little alcove at arthur's for years until it disappeared in 2012

a gloriously sunny january day.... i wander along the road past a young cormorant drying his out-stretched wings in the morning sun and head onto the coast path. it's wet and incredibly muddy, slippy and slidey, and although i hadn't planned to go swimming the sun feels strong and the sea is calling. i decide to head down to falmouth bay through the tangled network of little paths above arthur's beach. being winter and less overgrown it's actually possible to follow the tracks, although there are many branches tempting me in other directions. i follow my instinct and arrive at a sudden slope downwards. there are three ropes tied to the base of trees that you hold onto as if abseiling. when one runs out you pick up the next and then when that runs out there is another. seeing that they're well secured gives me the confidence to lean far back and swing down. it's incredibly fun and conjures up feelings and memories of my rock climbing adventures from way back. when i'm at the bottom i immediately want to do it again and again just for the experience.

this route brings me out onto arthur's beach and from there i clamber across the rocks to falmouth bay. it's bathed in a golden light, completely deserted and i take off my clothes. i'm just about to run into the sea when a man appears in the distance. i hesitate, then run, thinking i can be swimming before he gets any closer.... and his nearing presence is the motivation i need for a quick entry. it's cold but not unbearable and i swim as fast as i can out to a solitary rock only visible in this very low tide. i think the man might pass but he doesn't. he places his bag down quite a distance away and gets undressed. he wanders in up to his knees, seems to have a change of heart and then returns to the warmth of his woolly jumper. by now i'm a tad chilly and he's busy dressing so i seize the moment and run lightening fast to my scarf, which, today doubles as a towel. i wander around in my vest top and pants for quite a while as i dry off in the sun. i'm fully dressed and balance on one leg to dust the clinging sand off the sole of my other foot with the outside of my sock. the man approaches. he must be in his late seventies or eighties and he looks at me shaking his head, "that's a messy way of doin' it" he says in a strong cornish accent. with his stick he points out a flat rock with a little pool conveniently in front of it and explains that you can sit down, swish the sand off your feet in the water and do it that way. i'm not one who likes to be told how to do something so i continue as i am, swaying precariously on one leg whilst trying to keep up the conversation. he seems puzzled that i'm not acting on his advice so i tell him that i'll do this foot my way and the other foot his. immediately he gathers up my bag, my coat and the buoys i found earlier and walks them one by one and places them on his flat rock. i have to say- it's brilliant! it's comfy and you can have all your things next to you and the sand falls away effortlessly into the water and before you can blink the sun had dried your foot (well, not quite!) ....and you can leisurely pull your sock on and have a conversation at the same time, no problem. he looks like a man who's lived and learnt a bit.

he asks me if i'm an art student, "cos a lot come down 'ere," he says "but none as brave as you". i'm flattered and we get chatting. he's lived here all his life and between himself and two friends they regularly cut back the network of paths. i'd always wondered who tended to them and replaced the ropes when they became worn and frayed. he's a bit grumpy but he likes talking about his paths and takes me on a little tour of the ones that he proudly introduces as his own. we climb up above falmouth bay, his physical frailty and lack of breath become apparent but he mutters and swipes his stick at brambles with gusto. i gaze down on the rock i swam to and he waves his stick at things as if it were an extension of his pointing finger. he shows me where toads breed in the spring, we find a lone violet and he tells of his discovery of a rare orchid near where we are. he shows me a vast area of bracken and gorse and paints a picture of how it used to be when it was a luscious green field. there was once a big ramp for launching fishing boats which were towed down the paths by horses.

he mentions arthur and i ask if he means arthur as in arthur's beach. there is a big rock on the beach with 'arthur's beach' scrawled in yellow paint. it's been there for a long time gradually wearing away with every tide. "oh, yes", he says, "that's arthur for you. 'e daubed thaddon there". arthur is now in his seventies and isn't able to make it down to his beach as often as he used to. apparently he is known for saying to people, "had a good afternoon on ARTHUR'S beach have you?" and wandering off leaving them a bit perplexed. i imagine he's a bit of a character. i ask this man why arthur named the beach and he says loudly, "egotism" and then mutters, "all 'e's got goin' for 'im". so he's obviously not a big fan of the man! he looks at his watch and tells me it's 2pm and he'd like to go further but he has to get back home for his cup of tea. and without much of a goodbye he wanders off in the opposite direction, stick in the air, bashing brambles on either side as he goes.