Spring in Almuñecar

This post is adapted from a notebook entry I wrote in late spring while spending a few days in Almuñecar, a relaxed beach town south of Granada.

I pick my way across the sunny, pebbled beach with its swirls of warm browns and cool greys. Without my glasses on I can't tell exactly where one stone ends and the next begins, or where any sharp edges might be lurking – I measure my success in pain-free steps.

My feet sink slightly into warm, damp sand when I reach the shoreline. The frigid ocean laps at my toes, then my calves, and I laugh inadvertently at the cold. This is a swim I need to commit to: if I try to enter the water gradually I'm going to lose my courage to go in at all.

I rinse my goggles in the water before gently pressing them onto my face until the suction kicks in. The world crystallises once more, and I wave back to my husband, who's already treading water in the deep.

He skims compliments across the water to distract me from the temperature: "You look like a sixties Batman villain!" I look down in confusion at my long-sleeved swim shirt with its horizontal stripes of yellow and turquoise. Combined with pink and green bikini bottoms and the goggles, perhaps I have outdone myself today. I grin at him, curtsy, count to three, and launch myself into the ocean.

The cold is shocking on my belly but feels delicious closing over my head. I watch the sea floor plummet as I start to breaststroke underwater. The water is calm and light, and slides against my skin like silk. The visibility's good so I aim for my husband's legs and push myself to swim to him before surfacing for a gulp of air.

The water's so buoyant that it doesn't take much effort to tread water in place. I admire the sharp, grey rocks supporting the fort in the distance, before tracing clumps of colourful beach umbrellas along the shore. Behind them, palm trees frame a line of white and yellow hotels. As I keep turning, my gaze lingers on the green hills sprinkled with white homes, before skirting the monstrous housing estates of La Herradura.

Although we're not far from the shore, the water must be three or four metres deep. I swim down to touch the sand and my ears feel the pressure before I push myself back to the surface. Silver fish swim over to see if I've stirred up anything tasty with the sand. The sun turns one of them into a mirror, and it flashes the light into my eyes as it rolls once, twice to signal hello.

The light creates patterns on the sand that dance around each other before jumping to new partners. I flip backwards and swim back to the bottom, blowing bubbles as I smoosh sand between my fingers. Then I float slowly to the top like a starfish and lie on my back, legs stretched out and hands behind my head. I admire the spotless sky, watching the occasional seagull dive for a fishy snack or warn off competitors with a definitive squawk.

The water's so peaceful that I don't even have to watch for surprise waves that might splash into my eyes or up my nose. I enjoy floating and the feeling of weightlessness that comes with it, but after a few minutes of stillness the cold starts to demand attention. To warm up I start swimming freestyle along the beach, beginning an improvised lap in this cold, salty pool.

Sketches from Granada celebrates every-day moments of connection with strangers, friends and ourselves. I know how easy it is not to be present in your own life, and I hope these sketches inspire you to seek out those moments that are worth savouring. 

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