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So many checks: forecast, tide tides, sewage watchdog. It’s all clear this Tuesday lunchtime as I lock up the bike at the cliff’s edge and walk down the track to Walpole Bay. I’ve done plenty of prep before today too, wrestling my friend’s old bike out of her shed, hosing off the spiders’ webs, taking it to the rail station for a pump. I can’t budget a half hour round-trip walk on top of a swim. Another case of doing more because I can do less. I’ve been coming here for years, but with my still palpable thalassophobia, I’m newly in love with the enormous expanse of tamed seawater on offer. On a good day, you can see the bottom with its tapestry of green algae and gold sand. Lobsters live there. Possibly. You can only swim in the tidal pool for a few hours on either side of low tide. Otherwise, it’s just wild water with the added hazard of being sucked over the barrier.

Because of the time and the almost-sunny skies, I’m expecting the dry-robe brigade in full force. My temporary friends. But the pool is under the sole command of two men in red waterproof trousers power-hosing the barrier. A big job. An interwar leisure intervention, the sheer scale of Walpole Bay impresses me every time. I strip off and start the deceptively long walk along the barrier out to the first ladder. A woman and her child are looking for a lost frisbee in the furry shallows. I thought it would be easy to see, she explains. Water is deceptive like that. The ladders here are a sculptor’s dream, lovely high curved railings of rusted iron giving way to algae-smooth steps. I ease myself down the intervals into the chalky blue water. My body quickly adjusts to the summer cold water, and another world emerges, one of infinitely fluctuating cool colours broken only by a few brilliant pops of colour: a nearby container ship with crisp red and white writing, an angler poised on the water’s edge, and of course the two men with the deafening power hoses. Even they become a photogenic tableau poised between sky and water. I turn back toward the cliffs, their dullness gone to be replaced by a hyperreal glow. Now I can see my would-be tribe, a few laughing women in the carpark suiting up in neoprene and pink accessories. They don’t look ready to enter any time soon,

Half sunning myself on a concrete wall, I eavesdrop on a mother and her adult son as they disrobe. They debate the ecological value of birthday cards. Don’t think it will matter in the grand scheme of things, mum. A bead of water escapes my swim top and rolls down the channel of my backbone. The faffing swimmers are finally descending the ramp. They wear proper cosies and caps, with insulating boots and gloves. They even carry neon dry bags. How long are they preparing to stay in for? Perhaps they’re training for a big wild swim. I’m almost ashamed by my earlier idea of sharing a length with them. With the confidence born of protected feet, they forego the ladder entrance and step out into shallows. For about three steps. Then the shrieking begins. And continues for another ten minutes as they encourage each other on with hoots of laughter and playful splashes. Yeah, not what I was expecting.