It’s a Wednesday evening, with the weather forecasted to be warm with only light easterly breezes, and a group of young adults – thirteen students – are sitting on Camber Sands at the edge of the dunes. Come the weekend, their brief holiday will be over and, after a short spell back home, will return to East Sussex for the start of the new university year.
The beginning of a new term – but for twelve of them only!
Four days have now elapsed since that brief interlude on Camber Sands and today, Monday, we find the sun climbing steadily above distant clouds of an early morning sky; that first blush of dawn now an almost forgotten memory. Otherwise the sky is clear. Another hot day in prospect.
The only activity to disturb the peace of such a beautiful morning is the sight of two young women out exercising their horses on the beach in the early hours, taking advantage of the low tide and the opportunity to ride along the shore before the 8:30am curfew. This morning, a broad expanse of sand left exposed by the retreating tide is now sufficiently firm for the horses to walk on comfortably. Yet despite the early hour, the sand is already starting to dry out, evidenced by wisps of water vapour rising and drifting inshore before a gentle southerly breeze. A creeping white miasma displaying the barest hint of crimson – a heavenly gift from the sun god. The tide is on the turn.
Spotting a bright yellow canoe stranded on the shoreline, the two riders turn their mounts towards the sea and break into an easy trot. The onshore breeze, cool rather than chill in what is still early morning, now washes over their faces. It’s not unpleasant. Silhouetted against the surf, their horses appear to move in harmony together across the sand, the focus of attention of their riders concentrated on the only visible object of interest along this lonely stretch of shore until, unexpectedly, the rhythm is broken. One of the riders is pulling back on the reins to bring her horse to a gentle halt. Turning around in the saddle she notes that the column of churned up sand they’ve left in their wake is rapidly disappearing, melting into a never-ending expanse of liquid gold. Such vigilance, driven by instinct, is second nature to anyone who lives close
to the sea.
A few seconds later the other rider stops also.
“What’s the matter?”
“Tide’s coming in behind us, Suzie. Better move the horses further up the beach. I’ll go down on foot.”
The canoe, probably brought in by the advancing tide, lies stranded on the shoreline, broadside on to the surf, rocking from side to side with each advancing wave.
“Looks like a sit-on-top job from here. No way suitable for deployment at sea. Especially on this coast. Flamin’ eejits; come down here from London with no common sense. And half of them can’t even swim either. No end of deaths last year along this coast. But who is it, I ask you, that ends up having to provide funding for the lifeguards?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the holiday camps contribute something.”
They begin moving away from the canoe towards safer ground, lest the horses begin sinking too far into the wet sand.
“Canoe must have drifted out from the mouth of the Rother and then got washed up here.”
Suzie pulls her horse up once more.
“I reckon this is far enough. Here, take the reins while I take a closer look. It’s not yet 7am, so we’ve got plenty of time.”
Taking her weight on the left hand stirrup, Suzanne swings over her other leg, releasing her foot before sliding down the horse’s side. She hands her reins to her companion and then strides out across the wet sand. As she gets closer to the surf, her progress continues in brief fits and starts so as to avoid as best she can the risk of her riding boots becoming encrusted with seawater, now advancing inch by inch with each wavelet.
Her friend, Tiffany, watches on with casual interest, admiring the shapely silhouette of her friend, tightly wrapped in jodhpurs, as she advances gingerly towards her goal, perhaps anticipating the moment when she will bend down to take hold of the craft and attempt to release it from the cloying embrace of the sand. She can’t prevent the smile that erupts unbidden as she notices that Suzie is still clutching her riding crop in her right hand. Her defence against some imagined predator maybe? Meanwhile, Tiffany, having two horses to
contend with and so unable to offer much in the way of assistance, has to be content to watch her girlfriend ‘doing her bit’.
Her brief reverie is quickly shattered though when Suzie suddenly jumps backward, at the same time letting out a shrill shriek. Momentarily losing her balance, she attempts to regain it by running backward but, unable to maintain a secure foothold in the sinking sand, she falls backwards into the swell and is dumped unceremoniously onto her backside, swearing loudly.
“Tiff; Tiff!”
Then a curse when the cold water catches on the small of her back, when she lets out another, a very different kind of scream.
Now visibly concerned for her friend, Tiffany watches Suzie scramble back onto her feet and, stumbling backwards along the waterline trying to regain her balance, half turning as she does, she points at the innocent looking craft resting on the beach. It’s only with difficulty that she is able to make out what her friend is shouting.
“There’s a body inside it, Tiff!“
Then, closer, “I didn’t hang about long enough to get a proper gander, but I’m pretty sure it’s a girl. Judging by her size, I’d say late teens.”
“Is she dead?”
“Dunno. I assume so. The body’s lying face down; and the canoe is three quarters full of water . . . must have drowned I guess. It’s one of those inflatable, sit-on jobs but there’s no shortage of water inside it. What in hell are we supposed to do? Can hardly lead the horses up onto the beach. Not allowed.”
Fishing out a mobile phone from her jacket, Tiffany volunteers, “I’ll ring 999 and contact the coastguard.”
“ . . . and the police, too. The canoe’s beached. No reason to warrant getting the lifeboat out.”
“Who’s to say this is the only one in trouble? We need to alert the coastguard and the police. And then I’m going to ring Phil. The promise of an early scoop on the story will negate his being pissed off by having his breakfast disturbed.”
“Not sure if that’s a good idea, Tiff. Contaminating the scene an’ all that.”
“The only footprints are mine; and those of a couple of curious crabs maybe and they’ll soon have disappeared under the waves. I mean, it’s hardly a crime scene is it? It’s obvious that it’s been washed in with the tide.”
A pause.
“That’s why you’re employed by a newspaper, Tiff and not by the bloody police. Another possibility could be that it’s actually in the process of being washed out to sea! Just dial 999, Tiff.”
© James Lever