The sea is where people go to die. How entering an unending conveyor belt of brine-filled walls of death can be classed as entertainment is beyond me. Salt water is an alkaline. A very similar effect to swimming in the sea can be found by washing your eyes with bleach. The same goes for the intermittent drowning: ask a friend to waterboard you in the comfort of your front room. I dont see the appeal of risking your life. And this only after you walked over either burning (if abroad) or glass filled (at home) sand (abroad) or gravel (home).
Why this peculiar British obsession with the sea? Because were an Island Nation? Our proud sea-faring tradition? This isn't quite enough for me. I cant find any pride in helping the slave trade, colonising Africa and blowing up the Malvinas. It doesn't excuse Bergerac or Howards Way, either. Because we (me?) love to suffer and complain? Because we dont have nice weather, nice food, or children we like? I know not.
Still, we go. And in great numbers. Indeed, attending the pre-climate change British beach was, like street fighting, processed ham and tutting, one of our dignified traditions. We must surely be the only country that takes a temporary wall with them to try to reduce the biting winds from further burning our pale and flaccid bodies. We attempt frisbee in hurricane conditions, give up and try the beach ball which we lose instantly as its swept out to Ireland. We have a huge argument and then when the rain really starts up we end up in a cafe where the steamed up windows leave us only knowing we are at the beach because it took four hours to get there crawling along eighteenth century roads. These, plus chewing sand, ironic sunburn, chilblains and drinking from a Thermos flask are my abiding memories of this annual torture.
However there is, even spoilsport I must admit, something innate in our need to see the sea, or at least having seen it, to return. (I should add Ive met many people who have never seen a sea and they dont see the fuss or feel this urge.) From the comfort of a bed, plane or well-stocked bar, there is absolutely something mysterious, mighty and overwhelming about these vast saline murderous expanses. Perhaps the audacity of its nothingness throws us. Or envy of its simplicity.