Nightswimming: September's Here

What a difference a day makes.

While still in August we feel as though we can look forward to endless summer, and then suddenly September arrives and we look back at a summer disappearing below the sunset horizon of a shortening day. As night arrives earlier, so summer starts to wind down and enters its own twilight. We look forward, but without enthusiasm, to the inevitable storms, the infuriation of the autumn flies, the enclosure of the terraces with their wind-beaten plastic drapes. One day may seem much like the previous one, but we know that it isn't; summer's coming to a close again, and we wonder, as we wonder each year, where on earth it went.

Rarely is September a month of uninterrupted bliss. The mid-month malevolence of the "gota fría" can be forecast without the advice of the meteorologists. We know it's coming, coinciding with the "vuelta al cole" (back to school) of 12 September. The ferocity of the September storms is the evil witch of weather who mocks our desire for a lingering summer and simultaneously kidnaps the vitality and shouts of children which, though we might have cursed them in high summer, become the muted manoeuvres and idleness of beaches, as summer passes into old age. And at times, in September, a sea fret encloses the beach with a chill blanket for the rheumatic, fooled into the fading warmth of summer.

September's coming soon. We announced it as though it were a distant omen. Now September is here. It arrived when we weren't looking. Be damned its apparition. Cock a snook at the ghostly and life-sucking presumptuousness of its shore mists. The sea's still warm. Very warm. The recklessness of water. We assume, if only briefly, the recklessness of childhood. If not now, then not again. Nightswimming.


REM.-.Nightswimming.
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