We used to stand on edge of the bridge, fingers wrapped over the railings and muddy toes clinging to the boardwalk.
The water below opaque with swirling clouds of silt and sand, moving steadily out to sea.
The morning wind would rise to blow out the tide, sending goosebumps rippling across our bodies.
“Jump!” Someone would scream, hurling themselves into the icy water below.
We would all follow, arms and shrieks slicing the air.
I remember the first time, gazing into the gently brooding creek, the high tide waters lapping over the tips of the samphire that carpeted the marsh.
I remember the terror.
Was I expected to jump in too?
Only if I wanted.
Which of course I didn’t.
But who wants to be left behind?
Who wants to miss out on the fun?
Who wants to take that long walk back through the mud alone, wrapped only in a soggy towel and regret?