Kayak

The kayak was banana-like, in colour and in shape. I sat inside it with my legs stretched out in front of me, life-jacket puffed up to my chin. I held the paddle lightly, weighing it in my palms, trying to get a feel for it. Then I dipped the blades into the tourmaline water, one after the other, dragging them through it and pushing the boat over the waves. My arms were brown from hours on the beach, and now they shone with droplets of sea water and sweat. The blades threw water up onto my hair, my legs, my face. I weaved through the wakes of yachts and speedboats, arms burning in the sun and with the effort, brow furrowed with concentration and the dazzling waves. Way off in the distance, some pinkish cliffs jutted out into the bay; I fixed them as my goal and paddled on.

The cliffs loomed up and I could suddenly see brown figures scrambling up them, clinging onto them, jumping off them with an immense splash. I paddled in amongst snorkellers, into the shadow of the cliffs, into the open cave they formed. The water was dark, the snorkellers circling eerily, like sharks. High above, a boy prepared to jump. A fall of fifteen metres awaited him, and beneath, a blue-black pool of sea. He dropped; I winced at the impact of it, like a cannonball missing a pirate ship and landing in the waves. He bobbed to the surface unharmed. I paddled on.

The cliff-cave opened suddenly, like a cavernous, jagged mouth. The mouth of a whale, whose belly I was paddling out from, into the light.

Once out, I paddled back round the rocks, back towards the beach I'd rented the kayak from. The journey back felt twice as long, my arms lead-heavy as I paddled fiercely on.

Back on the beach I stepped out and stretched my arms. My skin was covered in a fine layer of salt. It reminded me of the sea. It caught the sunlight.