“Shush“, the Dover shingle whispers softly, sub-surface, sub-marine.
In the silty harbour sea, I cannot see my arms or hands or life.
The Dover shingle shifts. Slides and settles. We sigh together.
I am swimming with my eyes closed, and the shingle says “shush” and I open them and swim on.
I’ve written about the sound of swimming in Dover previously, but without explanation. Dover Harbour, not the most pleasant of swimming locations, is aurally different to any other location that I’ve swum and something about that sound reaches into me every time I hear it. Sometimes you really have to write for yourself.