She thinks of Sheelagh, her boat, and how she used to go below deck for the night in the middle of the Atlantic. How it made her feel safe and vulnerable all at the same time. Safe because she was out of the elements, vulnerable because she wasn’t in them looking out for danger. A firm atheist, she nevertheless always used to say a prayer to Poseidon, the God of the sea, to protect her, and he always had.

She glances up at the glass case full of her dusty sailing trophies, remembering the feeling of salt on her skin, her hand on a tiller, the wind in her face. She misses that feeling of sailing towards the horizon, not knowing what might happen. She might feel like she’s still twenty-five, but she’s old enough to know that her sailing days are sadly behind her. She can’t afford it, for starters, and anyway, her confidence has gone. She hasn’t got the nerve for solo-sailing any more and she couldn’t sail with anyone else. It’s bad enough living in a terrace with other people around; there’s no way she could share a cabin with anyone.

But still her heart yearns for the sea and that’s why she swims, because only by getting back to her natural element can she pretend that everything is still a possibility.

She decides to put another shout-out on the WhatsApp for a swim in the morning. Hopefully Dominica will come again. It’ll do her good.

Despite her good intentions, however, Helga oversleeps. Her heart palpitations kept her awake in the small hours again, despite her trying her deep breathing tricks. She’s damned if she’s going to the doctor – not that they’re seeing patients in the flesh. She doesn’t want some do-gooder putting her on pills that will make her feel weird.

When Helga arrives at their usual spot, there’s a dampness to the morning air and the sea is rougher than she’d been expecting. She already knows it’s going to be chilly getting in, but that’s no bad thing. She loves the sea, however its mood, and knows that its cold embrace will wash away the fears of the night.

She’s pleased to see that Dominica and Tor are waiting by the groyne. She hasn’t seen them since their swim a few days ago at Christmas. Not that Helga took much notice of Christmas. She’d whiled away the day painting and eating toast.

Tor is stamping her feet, keeping warm. She’s wearing a camouflage-pattern sea vest over her costume.

‘What do you reckon?’ Tor asks Helga as she arrives, putting down her bag and already toe-heeling off her canvas shoes.

Helga can always predict the temperature of the sea within one degree and can tell which way the tide is going, and the current is running, but today is a little confusing. The sea is a foaming mass of clashing peaks. She puts her nose up, feeling the wind on her face. South-westerly. Coming up to a four on the wind scale, she reckons.