Naked in His Swimming Lane

The stranger’s face was so close when I surfaced that I actually pursed my lips before my brain caught up. Not for a kiss—for the seawater running down my nose, which somehow made it worse. We were both naked, both blinking, and apparently sharing one square foot of ocean. ‘Hello,’ he said. I tried to step back with dignity. There was no bottom under that particular foot.

The next wave arrived before either of us moved. He caught my forearm; I grabbed his shoulder, and we turned sideways together until our feet found sand. ‘Ben,’ he said, once we stopped spluttering. ‘Excellent ocean awareness.’ I was still holding his shoulder. I released it rather carefully. ‘You were in my lane.’ He glanced around the wide, mostly empty water. ‘Sorry. Missed the markings.’

Until then, being naked at Sydney’s naturist beach had felt about as remarkable as being barefoot. Now I was standing in chest-deep water opposite a man whose smile I wanted another look at, wondering what to do with my hands. Folding my arms seemed defensive. Leaving them floating in front of me looked faintly aquatic. Ben politely pretended not to notice my small administrative crisis. ‘Do you always swim straight at people?’ he asked. ‘Only the ones obstructing traffic.’

He suggested we move a little closer to shore, where the waves were breaking gently and the footing was better. I said that sounded suspiciously like retreat. Somehow, within thirty seconds, we had agreed to a contest: five waves, whoever stayed standing won. We were two grown adults inventing rules in the sea, and I was taking it far too seriously. ‘No grabbing,’ I said. Ben raised his hands. ‘You grabbed first.’ Unfortunately, there were witnesses. Me, mainly.

The first wave barely troubled us. The second made Ben take three quick steps backward, which he described as ‘remaining upright across a wider area.’ I laughed so hard that the third caught me sideways. I swung an arm out, he offered his hand, and I took it before remembering my own rule. ‘Outside assistance,’ he said. ‘Interference,’ I replied. We stood there holding hands for another few seconds, long after my balance had returned. Then he loosened his fingers, giving me the choice, and I let go with an entirely unnecessary smile.

By wave four we were shoulder to shoulder. I could feel the water lifting me, then draining away, leaving more of me exposed than I’d expected. Ben glanced over just as I straightened up. It wasn’t a stare, but I felt myself blush anyway. ‘Checking my technique?’ I asked. ‘Checking whether you’re about to invent another rule.’ The fifth wave broke early. A low wall of white foam rushed toward us; I jumped, he braced, and we bumped shoulders as it swept through. We staggered in opposite directions, arms windmilling, both shouting that the other had lost. One nearby swimmer looked over, smiled, and returned to floating.

On the sand, Ben fetched his towel and sat beside mine, leaving a comfortable gap. Without the water between us, I briefly wanted to tuck my knees up and make myself smaller. Instead, I stretched my legs out and brushed sand from my ankle. He was looking at my face when I looked back. ‘For the record,’ he said, ‘jumping is not standing.’ ‘For the record, walking backward is not standing either.’ He considered that. ‘Draw?’ I shook my head. ‘Pending investigation.’

We talked until the water on our skin had dried, mostly about swimming and the surprising amount of sand my bag could accommodate. When I stood for another dip, I reached automatically for my towel, then left it where it was. ‘Coming?’ Ben rose, smiling. At the edge of the water I held out my hand, quite deliberately this time. He took it. ‘Thought grabbing wasn’t allowed.’ ‘Contest is over,’ I said. ‘And stay in my lane.’