The Canoeists

This November, we walked along Middle Beach at Studland - twilight was turning the familiar scene into something strange - the beach seemed empty save for us - the sea was very calm - small waves rolled over the sand - each wave left a lacework of foam, dissolving into the sand -

Behind the dunes, you could see the beach huts, with their peaked roofs outlined against the clouds - the clouds looked as though they'd been conjured up - billowing up over the sky from one central point - spikey marram grass fringed the dunes - ropes cordoned off an area where lizards had their habitat -

Anne noticed the canoeists on the beach - they were brawny and large limbed - salt caked their hair - they wore high spec dry suits - they were dragging a bright red canoe towards the still sea -

Anne spoke to them - they told us they had canoed in the Arctic seas - dragging their canoes over the ice floes - they were going to practice their capsize drill -

They scorned the idea of belonging to a club - they did things by themselves -

We watched one of them practice capsizing, over and over again, watched by the other - he didn't seem to get it quite right - we saw him heave and wallow in the shallow water - try again, then try again -

When we left the beach, we saw two other canoeists, in green canoes, far out from the shore - they skimmed along, moving swiftly and effortlessly, their paddles hardly stirring the water -

I wondered what you'd think if you were sitting in a canoe, with only a thin hull between you and the depths of the sea - I thought of St Brendan, and his coracle - what wonders might you find?