The Night Swimmers – Part 1: Calanque

Nour swam at five every morning, alone, in the dark, in a small cove outside Marseille.

It was her ritual, her penance, her private discipline. She was thirty-one, a surgeon, with a shaved head and powerful shoulders, and swimming was the only thing that quieted her mind. The water in October was cold enough to hurt. The calanque was a pale curve of rock under a paling sky.

On Monday, there was someone already there.

A head broke the surface thirty metres out, a swimming cap, a pair of goggles. The swimmer turned on her back and floated, arms wide, utterly still. Nour stood on the shingle, annoyed. She had never shared the cove.

"Bonjour!" called the swimmer.

"Bonjour."

"You're racing."

"I'm training."

"Against what?"

Nour had no answer. The swimmer waded ashore, shaking water from her cap. She was thirty-four, small, soft-faced, with freckles and a calm, amused smile. "Élise. I teach art history. I come to float."

"To what?"

"Float. It's like doing nothing, very hard." She handed Nour a flask. "Hot lemon. For after."

Nour took it. The drink was sweet and sharp. She sat on a rock in her towel, watching the sky pale over the headland.

The next morning, Élise was there again. Nour swam her laps; Élise floated, drifting like a leaf. On the third morning, Nour stopped mid-length, rolled onto her back, and tried.

"Breathe out," called Élise. "Let go of your hips."

For the first time in years, the water held her.

"Can I ask you something?" said Nour, afterwards, on the rock.

"Yes."

"Why did you teach me?"

"You looked like you were holding up the sky," said Élise.

"Green?" said Nour, with a faint, helpless laugh.

"Green," said Élise. "Very green. Come back tomorrow."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Sunrise Swim.