In The Swim

Coracle Oracle editor Red Hurring breaks the surface to file this report for the Oamaru Harbour Open Water Swimming Club.

It's murkier than a harbour working party meeting held in committee down there.
Certainly, no self-respecting member of the public would dare set foot in our harbour for a swim without taking the sort of precautions necessary for, say, speaking on a written submission to a panel hearing.
But I braved the waters at dusk yesterday, sans goggles, tape recorder or rescue remedy to discover the pleasures of a dip in the briny unfurl before me like a warning semaphore.
It was salty and aqueous and all those things you'd expect it to be.
The high tide at least cloaked the rocks, sharp shells and discarded old vinyl handbags invariably worn to a faint beige by the sea.
How come everything in, near, or around Oamaru eventually turns beige?
The majority of the population was one of the first things I failed to notice when I moved here on account of its endemic ability to go camo in cardies and fawn slacks, becoming as one with the stone buildings and beige dust, and moving apace.
Of course now it's a different story, given the greater access to mobility scooters enjoyed by the older generation.
They whizz along the broad streets in a genteel sort of manner, flags of various nationalities proudly flying, some even daring to sport a bumper sticker.
"My other car's a broomstick."
"You know the world's gone mad when kids run wild and dogs go to obedience school."
"Metal Up Your Arse." Oh, wait. That one belongs on the rear window of the car driven by that Metallica fan who works at Gillies...
You can't see the bottom of the harbour.
The same cheeky piece of seaweed tries footsie with me until I make it clear that this sort of behaviour is NOT ON and surge away with the powerful overarm that got me across the Tongariro River on many a hot day.
I surge across what I believe to be an impressive stretch of water only to look up, gasping, and discover I've moved about two metres.
Time to flip on my back and ponder the sky starfish-like.
There's lots to think about out there, and the town looks positively enchanting from another element.
The delusive distance, eh. No mobility scooters visible, the odd old bomb parked up above the sand, its tightly shut windows indicating one of two things: either the car's occupants can't stand the wind, or it's time for their after-work wind-down spliff.
Such an innocent spot.
The draw of the water as you get out must give that sandy stretch its name: Friendly Bay. Because as you wade out it's clear they'd rather you stayed in.
Pity I never kept that reference book on ships' flags.