Chapter 1: How It Started
By Joy Wilkinson
The dishwasher hummed contentedly to itself while the washing machine sloshed its way through the bedsheets. Sally sipped her hot coffee and sighed. Everything was done: kitchen counter tops sparkling, floors swept, bathrooms smelling of bleach and air freshener.
She did love a clean and tidy house. Not like her ex, Phil. He could live in a rubbish dump surrounded by piles of old newspapers and dog shit and not notice. It felt as if she had spent all her time with him constantly tidying up the mess he left in his wake. Then he said he found her boring and uninteresting, walked out the door one day and moved back in with his mother. Good riddance she thought, it was so much easier anyway without him around, even though she had Alfie to look after. That had been hard work when he was young but now he had gone to uni, she felt like she had lost a friend.
And it wasn’t as if she had a lot of friends. Or any really, if she thought about it. She had work colleagues and they always went out for the obligatory birthday and Christmas celebrations but she didn’t think of them as friends. Her job was okay: it paid the bills. Not an interesting job as Phil would say, but she enjoyed book-keeping. Numbers always did what they were supposed to do, lining up in orderly rows and obeying all the rules.
She picked up the damp cloth folded over the edge of the sink and started wiping invisible dirt off the already clean worktops. With an empty house, the weekend spread ahead of her in some kind of time warp that made it look infinitely long. She wiped the ring left by her coffee mug and placed the mug into the sink. The cloth went back over the tap to dry.
Sally looked around, saw nothing amiss, and wandered into the living room. Or her library as Alfie called it, a room she had carefully furnished with floor to ceiling shelves along one wall. They were stacked with books, many she had bought in anticipation of all the time she would have to read one day, books like that Hilary Mantel Wolf Hall series which had looked amazing on TV. With Alfie gone, she finally had the time to read but all those titles that had looked enticing when she was busy with childcare now seemed boring and tedious. Who wanted to sit in a chair all weekend reading anyway?
What was happening? She loved reading! But now the thought of settling down with a book filled her with dread. She felt restless and jittery. Maybe she needed to do more exercise. Or any exercise at all, come to that. What exercise would she do? Join parkrun on Saturday mornings like some of her work colleagues? They couldn’t shut up about it. Or what about joining the local rambling group? It was probably full of old fogies though.
She spotted the free community newsletter on the coffee table. Maybe there was some exercise inspiration in there. Oh look, a club for the over 50s. With dominoes. And crochet. Embroidery. It all sounded so tedious. Table tennis. That was better. But what the hell was “Pickleball”? Something to do with pickling onions? But where do the balls come in? This is ridiculous. There must be something she could do. Something that involved other people, it was about time she put herself out there again. She needed to find something interesting to do, something interesting with other people.
But what?
Chapter 2 by Andrew Stock
Sally shifted uncomfortably in the chair. This had seemed like a good idea when she saw it advertised on the library notice board but now? She tugged again at the harness that seemed determined to force its way as far into her crotch as it could go and focused on the muscled boy in front of her.
‘So remember at all times clip on, un-clip then move.’ He smiled encouragingly at the small group ‘think of it like a seat belt. Never move off without strapping in, clip on clip off’
‘Clunk click every trip.’ Sally thought remembering an advert from her childhood. Wasn’t that Jimmy Saville? She shuddered at the very thought of the name and tried to zone in again on the conversation that had broken out.
‘But what if I slip.’ ‘Surely that can’t be safe.’ ‘Has anyone ever broken anything.’ God what had she got herself into? She thought again of her books at home, the comfortable armchair, the strong black coffee, the plate of biscuits. No! That was too easy. That was the old her, the Philip her, the mum her, the housewife and homemaker her. She pulled again at the harness wishing it wasn’t quite so tight.
‘Ok guys.’ God, had the instructor whose name was Wayne (but you can call me Tiger) really called them all guys? ‘If we head on outside, we will make a start. Hold on to those clips, don’t let them drag along, don’t want an accident before we start do we?’
‘Don’t want one at all.’ Mumbled a large man who with the tightness of his harness reminded Sally of a trussed turkey.
‘Ok guys stop here.’ Obviously, this instructor found the word guys appealing because his smile widened to the point of no return. ‘As you can see, we are at the base of the tower.’ He laughed and pointed a finger aloft. ‘Shall we make a start/’ He turned placing a foot on the metal strut, ‘and remember guys… clip on clip off.’ He clipped his own carabiner onto the structure and looked at Sally ‘OK young lady how do you fancy going first?’ If she had answered truthfully Sally would have said ‘I don’t, I don’t want to be here at all but somehow, she nodded mutely and stepped forward.
‘OK, clip on then start to climb. When you reach the first clip reach up, clip the second clip on and climb to that.’ Sally breathed deeply, concentrating hard and definitely not looking down. Why she had thought that abseiling had been a good idea she didn’t know, not now, not whilst hung what seemed a thousand feet up in the air connected by no more than two clips. The notice at the library had said fun. She promised herself that when she got home, she would find the definition of fun in her dictionary and check if she had a right to compensation for false advertisement. Suddenly she was at the top staring down to earth so far away sweat beading her brow.
‘Good climb chaps. Now if we are ready who’s going first. You were first here young lady. You ready to be first? Sally looked at the drop and swallowed.
‘I suppose so Wayne.’ She emphasised the name but allowed herself to be attached to a series of ropes.
‘OK, turn around and face me and step on the edge.’ Sally felt herself tense as she began to lean, her breath came is ragged blasts. Before she knew it she was at the point of no return, her back to the floor, her feet beginning the slow ponderous walk down the wall, her arms aching with the effort.
Above her the voice of Wayne called encouragingly, ‘Good work Sally. Nearly there. Concentrate on the journey.’ And then he said the words that made this whole experience all that it promised to be. ‘When you are at the bottom you can look up and see all that you have accomplished.’ As her feet touched the floor and a set of hands helped her free of her harness, Sally smiled up into the blue sky and felt the euphoria of her own power. She may have been at her lowest, but now for her the only direction was up. As she walked to the car park her head swimming with what could be she saw the notice board next to her parked car. A poster freshly pinned and colourfully designed said, Are you interested in…
Chapter 3 by Sue Barton
Wild Swimming? Mmm! Sally read the poster. It gave the start venue. It wasn’t too far from where she lived.
Sally had done a lot of swimming when she was young, been quite successful in regattas, but like so much in her life, her duties took priority. First to her mother then Phil who had not so much married her but thrown his sorry life in her path expecting her to live all the disagreeable bits for him leaving him free to watch sport all weekend and criticise her while she did all the chores.
Being a child carer for her single parent mother who had suffered from MS was the start line. She had loved her Mum and as she grew up, caring for her became Sally’s normal. Maybe her caring qualities were what had attracted Phil. He lived next door and would have been aware of the attention Sally paid her mother. He wanted to be cared for too. When Sally’s Mum died Sally sold the big old house, invested most of the proceeds and bought herself a modest house on a new estate. She missed her mother and decided to work at the Willows. Caring for the residents went some way towards easing her grief. That was when Phil started calling round and Sally agreed to marry him. She soon knew she had to panda to his every whim if he were not to sulk. But when their baby boy came along, she lost interest in Phil and his selfish ways. He refused to help in anyway and hi-tailed it back to Mummy who was only too happy to indulge him. Alfie was grown now, a confident bright chap off studying at college living life to the full. She was proud of him and loved his youthful vigour but knew she must not make him the focus of her existence.
This was good enough reason, Sally felt, to branch out but she also wondered if this new urge to discover the world of adventure was really just a bid to rid herself of the label “boring” that Phil had slapped on her all those years ago. She had carried it like a scarlet letter all through the years.
Her achievement in the climbing episode had boosted her confidence but she didn’t want to repeat it. No, wild swimming would, she felt, be a far more suitable pursuit for her.
Sally rang the number on the poster to get more details of the 10 mile swim down the river Dart and promised herself she would start training immediately at her local pool.
Chapter 4: By Jacquie Gulliver
The following morning Sally left an unwashed coffee mug in the sink. She did not wipe down the kitchen counter. And, at the swimming pool, when a voice asked, what she was doing there, she replied, ‘Going for a haircut.’
It was the trussed chicken, from the abseiling course! ‘Sorry, stupid question,’ he spluttered. Then added that he had seen an ad for wild swimming. ‘Thought I’d try a bit of tame swimming first...’ he smiled.
He looked a lot better without the abseiling harness. It did unfortunate things to male anatomy. My goodness — where did that thought come from? Later she admired his shoulders — he was not a bad swimmer...
Back home, Sally read the ten-mile-swim email: Tow floats not allowed. She had imagined floating gently downstream on the current. But this said she needed to be fit enough to do a mile in under 40 minutes. Ouff! Not sure about that... 1,600 swimmers. That would feel like being a piece of microplastic, caught up in the swirling mass of the Pacific rubbish vortex. Thank goodness she had not signed up.
The following morning Sally washed her coffee cup and wiped down the counters. Mustn’t turn into a slob like Phil. But she did admit that she hated the smell of chlorine and did not return to the swimming pool. She had grown up swimming in the river Dart. But these days, all you heard, was how dangerous it was. Raw sewage, agricultural run-off, poisonous algal blooms, E-coli, reeds and supermarket trolleys — all waiting to get you.
She compromised with a yoga class, on the banks of the Dart. Faith, the teacher was American. She apologised for the goose shit and held her hands in a namaste gesture. But she did not call them guys. The class was held in the pub garden and there was coffee and a chat afterwards. She grew to like the women in the group. She became more supple. She liked lying on her mat, at the end of the class, watching the clouds scudding through the branches of a willow tree. It reminded her of floating down the river as a child.
‘I’d really love to go for a swim now.’ Said Faith, one hot summer’s day — staring at the NO SWIMMING sign.
Sally replied wistfully, ‘We used to swim past here when my friend’s Dad dropped us at the bridge. I grew up, a ten minute swim downstream.’
‘Is there anywhere there to get out?’ Faith asked.
‘I don’t know. It will have changed. But anyway, you can’t swim now. It’s too dangerous.’
‘I swim all the time,’ said Faith. ‘It’s such a cool river.’
Sally thought about that a lot during the following week. Eventually she went for a walk in the field opposite her old house. The copse, was still there. Through the undergrowth she could just see the shallow incline where cattle used to come to drink. So you could still get out there and walk to the footpath...
Chapter 5: by Joan Lightning
Sally walked down to look at the river, but reluctantly turned away. Spontaneity was good for some things, but solo wild swimming was not one of them.
Swimming in a pool with still water was one thing, but a river would be colder and have a current, and maybe insects, and… do fish bite? What about rocks in the river? Worse, what about bicycles and other junk in the river?
Maybe there’s a local wild swimming group I could join?
Back home, a quick search of Google found one and her finger hovered over the ‘contact us’ link, but she hesitated.
Am I fit enough?
An advert on the webpage caught her eye:
‘Fighting Females. Ladies keep fit and self-defence free taster class.
Learn defence in a safe all female environment. Strengthen your core, develop your confidence. All abilities welcome.’
The picture showed a group of smiling women, including two who looked older than her.
She clicked.
It’s free. Maybe I’ll learn something.
A few days later she stood in a group of women of various ages and body structure, but nearly all of them shared one thing – a look of terror that Sally was certain was also plastered across her own eyes.
She wore fleece leggings, and a cotton T-shirt, but her headgear was thick and padded with slits across eyes, nose, and mouth. She had boxing gloves on her hands as well – thick, heavy, and clumsy-looking things.
This may have been a mistake.
The instructor was a terrifyingly fit young woman with muscles in places where most people kept their spare tyres.
“Hi, I’m Mel. Here at Fighting Females, we aim to teach self-defence by the fastest and most effective method possible. We don’t do flowery Chinese acrobatics or anything like that. No meditating on navels or raking sand or walking on rice paper to pick up red-hot jars with our arms.”
She’s surely never old enough to have watched that show. Sally thought.
But the instructor hadn’t finished talking.
“The fastest way to learn to fight, is to fight. Here, with padding, in a safe environment, you can learn to hit other people.”
“We’re here to learn self-defence, not how to attack someone,” a woman to Sally’s left said.
“If you’re mugged, that’s a really bad time to find out that you can’t punch the stuffing out of a Cornish pasty,” Mel replied. “Do you want to tickle the mugger or knock him out?”
“Knock him out, preferably,” the woman said.
“Right. So get partners and form two lines. Raise your hands like this.” Mel demonstrated. “And start throwing punches at your partner. Aim for the body for now. Just get used to the idea.”
Sally shuffled into position opposite a woman. The padded helmet was distracting, the slit for her eyes was bounded by thick foam. She held up her hands, but the weight of the gloves tugged them downwards.
Wham!
The ceiling was in front of her eyes and spinning. No, it wasn’t. It was seven feet above her eyes and spinning. She was on the floor, surrounded by fuzzy people asking if she was all right, and a woman’s voice insisting that she was really very sorry, she hadn’t known she could punch that hard, and she would never hit anyone ever again, honest, promise to God.
“I’m ok,” Sally managed to say as the spinning slowed. “But I think I’d like to try some of that navel meditating instead. Or cake. Cake would be even better. With a coffee.”