The sun did not quite make it up this morning. The cold permeates,
My bones, my body.
It insinuates between collar and neck.
It intrudes on my warmth and insults
My well being.
These then the thoughts
As I trudge through the sand
Me and some few stalwarts
Down to the waters edge
Where waves crash against
Resolute sand
We march heads down
And shoulders hunched
Our breath comes
Like hissing puffs
From great engines.
Great stupid engines.
We stop where wet sand
Meets dry.
We stare mutely ahead
To where slate sky
Meets blue-grey water
We stop but only briefly.
We know what comes
Of stopping.
We know the end result
Of waiting.
Shelter and warmth
Entice, they peck at our resolve.
The clothes come off
In a frenzy of activity
Until as one, we nod
To each other
And run into the surf
The mantra: Don’t stop,
With each yard,
Don’t stop
With each foot fall
Don’t stop and dive
Into the misty grey froth.
The shock is absurd
The cold hurts, numbs
My mouth opens but
No sound comes forth
Exhilaration and life in every breath.
And then the race for dry land.
It’s January 1st and
It seemed like the right thing
To do.
Not a mark of sanity
By any known test.
But a test all the same
A test of life, a test of friends
And – we passed.
Bill Schatzabel - Recounting New Years Day 2008
