At the weekend Steve and I had our first outing on our boat this year. It's been a funny old year as we all know and it had taken us some time to decide if we'd bother getting our boat into the water. But we have and it was lovely to get away from work and home on Sunday. We pootled off at no great pace, enjoying the sights and sounds of being on the water during such a beautiful spell of weather.
We neither of us take our life here on the Isles of Scilly for granted, making sure that we talk about our good fortune often, especially on days like this. There's something utterly timeless about these boating days which spans our 40 years of being together. The simple freedom of having a boat opens up opportunities to visit other islands in the archipelago, be they populated or uninhabited. Mostly we take ourselves off to an uninhabited spot, aiming to have a beach to ourselves. On Sunday we weren't alone in that thought.
During the summer months these Fortunate Isles are a lure for the yachting community and it almost has to be an act of stealth to land upon a stretch of sand that hasn't been claimed by a like minded party. Local boats can be seen circling the islands looking for their very own private beach. And that's what we did for almost an hour as the tide was receding that morning.
At Old Grimsby there's a tiny smattering of rocks, hardly islands as such, called the Small Islands where Steve and I had spent many a courting day, catching shrimps and having picnics long before we married. These rocky outcrops aren't blessed with pure silky sand and offer little to do for families and therefore were a great place for two young lovers to escape to. It became a favourite spot for us. We'd clamber up over the rocks onto the grassy tussocks on top to eat our picnic and view the world from our vantage point, people-watching as boats zig-zagged below us and windsurfers whizzed past on their way to nowhere. Later, laying down on our blanket, we would become invisible to the world as we watched clouds scudding by, terns screeching overhead.
This particular islet is called Foreman Island where we enjoyed an idyllic few hours on Sunday. We spread a blanket and enjoyed our time just like we used to. The decades slipped away as we talked about our lives when we had first met. The fabric of these islands hasn't changed for thousands of years. Superficially yes, buildings have been erected and castles have crumbled, but the core of the Scillies remains the same. I take great solace in that. Generations will come and go, but barring some terrible natural disaster, these beautiful islands will always be the same.
Vapour trails are still a rarity in the skies above us. One of the best things about lock-down was the untainted skies overhead for months and months.
I had earmarked this sandbar as a good location for a photo shoot, bringing a mermaid frock with me for the moment when the tide dropped enough to reveal the white blond silky brow of sand. As we made our way out towards the Eastern Isles we could see that our plans were coinciding with others. The colourful sails of little toppers signaled company and as we got nearer we could see some kayaks there too. However, by the time we had transferred onto our little dingy, the interlopers were leaving and the sandbar became ours.
I hadn't planned to do a bikini shoot, but when we hit the beach the idea came to me I decided that it was the right thing to do. Unplanned, you see me without fake tan on my white belly or beach mules to lengthen my legs. The hand placed on that soft vulnerable spot of my tummy eventually drops away to reveal the truth of a 62 year old woman. Sea swimming is my only form of exercise, well that plus the frantic bit of cycling to and from the beaches, but in an ideal world I'd workout to keep myself more toned and trim. Having Madonna as a role model for my age is a tough act to follow and I do wonder sometimes if I had my own chef and personal trainer would I be sporting a springy, nay rock-hard body like hers.
A lifetime of dieting and feeling dissatisfied with my body is at last giving way to believing that I'm good enough - that this body is good enough. In years to come I'd love to think that society will have its focus on other things rather than our exterior selves. In the meantime, I'm the result of my upbringing, of a father who poked fun at my chumpfy thighs and of a gym mistress who pointed out how I had the whitest legs on the cross country team. My formative years were plagued by these shortcomings and only now have I laid them to rest. Happiness by way of body confidence doesn't rely on the word perfect. I'm 62 and good enough. Hurrah for that!
PS The mermaid dress will be showcased next time, so do please swing by again at the end of the week to see it.
Anna x
