Counting Laps

 

Counting Laps

 

Someone who estimates their laps is lying –

not in a big way, but nonetheless

they smooth out a rough guess to impress.

As I’m rounding the far buoy for the fourth

or fifth time (it’s difficult to be sure,

see what I did there; so easy isn’t it?) -

maybe a third or sixth lap, I think about this

and pull a few languid breaststrokes, viz:

‘Oh, yeah, been to Corfu a couple of times,

can’t remember, how many now’ (she can),

or ‘Think I did maybe about 10,000 yesterday,’

(he checked his smartwatch straight away),

I can see them all sprawled on the beach.

Now, this water’s freezing, but I’m getting

my money’s worth, you can be sure of that,

sharing the Fal Estuary with jellyfish, mullet,

and any other deep sea horrors that kiss

my bootless feet – swim on and dismiss –

as 30 minutes previous, 3 heads motioned

at me – I spotted familiarity in the salted

disembodied faces, but quickly struck out

for that blue yacht, wilfully ignoring shouts,

crossing the line between what’s known

and what is not. They’ve reserved a rock

for me, no doubt, threadbare towel dropped

upon it, sand up cracks: ‘How many laps?’

‘What’s it like? In there?’ Nodding interest

but wiping the gravel from their phones.

Bollocks to it. But I can’t shiver here in foam

forever and, therefore, in a dissimilar way

to Ursula Andress, (Doctor No), emerge,

dripping iced waters from prick-pin flesh,

gathered roughly no costly conch shells;

therefore, I guess, have nothing left to sell.