Memories of JJ

JJ in Sharrah Cascade, April 2013

One short year ago yesterday, on 15th June 2013, Jonathan ‘JJ’ Joyce died suddenly. He was loved by many, and he created the OSS Wild Swim Map (wildswim.com) which exemplifies his nature of exploration, discovery and sharing.

JJ was an adventurous wild swimmer and challenge swimmer whose love for people and water was unsurpassed.

In common with many of JJ’s swimming friends, I find he pops into my mind while I’m immersed in wild water. This weekend of sun and watery fun was one he’d have adored and so he spent a lot of time in my head. We swam and later skinny-dipped under the full Honey Moon at Bantham,  wearing floral headdresses, we swooshed up and down the Aune Estuary with the speeding tide, and dipped in a pool and waterfall in the river Tavy on the high moor. JJ’s spirit was there, enjoying the thrills, the social banter and chat, the different types of water and cake, and the unusual cloud formations on Friday at dusk which would have intrigued him. We mentioned him, and memories trickled into conversations.

In the two short years that we knew him, JJ (together with his family Steph, Janus and Finn) became so much a part of our swimming and social lives that the hole resulting from his shocking death appeared like a disused mineshaft, swallowing large chunks of our world with it. Yet he gave so much, touched so many of us in different ways, infected us with his bubbling adventurousness and humour and kindness, that his presence remains tangible. He transformed people, and was instrumental in developing some of our favourite swims and our ideas of what is swimmable – just. I wouldn’t have done a few of the crazy things we did without him there. He reinforced the notion that it’s perfectly normal to run into the sea at dawn wearing 1920s fancy dress, and discovered that gin improves lemon drizzle cake no end.

So, Jonathan the unforgettable, you swim with us in our hearts always. We miss you.

 

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Hartland Quay

Hartland Quay

The plan today was to swim from Hope Cove to Thurlestone, only with a pesky southerly blowing we thought it might be a tad frisky. So we went instead to Hartland Quay where we found the usual crashing and foaming around the rocks; it’s almost always wild around here.

Andrew, Plum and I got in fairly easily off the sheltered slipway and began to bounce in glowing, aquamarine sea. Earlier we’d been on the more reckless side of a Facebook debate on the dangers of being struck by lightning while swimming, so of course we were interrupted by a crashing rumble that I initially took to be a big wave dumping on pebbles; obviously it was thunder. We laughed in its face and continued with our swim, reasoning that there are plenty of high rocks and cliffs around here to attract strikes and we’re barely breaking the surface. Anyway, nothing short of death was going to get us out of this slightly nippy lushness.

Andrew Leaps

The geology here always takes my breath away. Reefs like crashed wafer biscuits point out to sea, overwhelmed by cliffs layered and snapped into jagged points like petrified storm waves. We swam over, then back to the big rock from where Andrew climbed and jumped while Plum and I bobbed, pulled this way and that by the crazy currents from waves surging through and around rocks.

After around three quarters of an hour we walked back up the slipway and sniggered at the potential irony of being struck by lightning before we got to the pub, but survived to order a pint of Tribute each. Inside in a dark corner slouched a young couple watching movies on an iPad. Two hours later they were still there, Skyping their friends about the lovely weather. Really.

With thanks to Plum for the photos.

Stunned by Geological Marvels

Black Tor Dell

The First Sneaky Peek of Black Tor Dell

Today’s dip stems from a sudden whim to visit the little dell below Black Tor where we haven’t been for some time. I have no towel or swimsuit so it’s a skinny dip, clinging to mossed rocks like hairy pectorals in the surge below the falls, in a howling gale, just before the storm hits.

Afterwards I stand spreadeagled on the bank while the wind whirls and chills still more. Flicking the drops of water from my skin with both hands, I turn and slowly dry. As I dress slinky grey stripes of rain advance from Burrator.  Water runs from my hair and down my face, and my sandalled feet are frozen from squelching through sucking boggy tussocks. Honey has the wind up her tail, cavorts like an excited camel, then eats some perfectly-matured vintage horse poo which means a choice between warming my soaking feet with the van heater and fainting with the pong, or winding the window down and breathing fresh, cold, Dartmoor air…you can guess which option I choose.

The Dell