My friend Maartje

Maartje and I, we like to go swimming.
Maartje and I lived on the same street, and I would pick her up and together we biked to the outdoor pool, rain or shine. Not particularly on a regular basis, just rain or shine. You know swimming is even better when it's not that great weather because there are less people wanting to jump the water right in front of you, and the pool doesn't feel like a gridlocked highway. It gives you plenty of space to swim next to each other and catch up on gossip like two old ladies, or talk about the more serious side of life.


Here, we were obviously not talking about the more serious side of life.

On September 14th, a nice autumn day two weeks after our outdoor pool closed down for winter, Maartje and I decided to go swimming in the North Sea. Drove up to Wijk aan Zee, walked down the beach, and even though it was sunny out, people were wearing coats and scarves. Not us. We stripped down and acted like it was midsummer. Look!





And what happened? We swam and swam and it was dead cold and we swam some more, and then someone whistled. A wave had soaked our bags. Our clothes: soaked. Maartjes phone: ruined. The newspaper: dripping with water and sand. But a few things were saved: Good spirits, and my grandmothers camera.




When we drove home in nothing but swimsuits and wet tops (thank God we didn't come by train) I realized I was going to have to walk out of the car in this outfit with a terrace full of people right next to my house.
Actually, I don't think anyone even noticed.



Maartje is in Buenos Aires right now, and I am in San Francisco. But mark my words.
We will go swimming again.


Cheers!