A combat jacket

My father's 1960s-issue British Army jacket. For years, his gardening jacket; now it lives in Norfolk, my beach jacket.  

In September 2003, just back from six weeks in Ladakh, my would-be wife and I would drive to the coast each evening and walk out to the bay, the only people on the yawning stretch of sand.  

In one pocket, a rolled green towel; in the other, a black bin liner and the dog's lead. At the water’s edge, everything was wrapped in the jacket, pushed into the bag; and then we were in, just us, swallowed by the cold, and swimming towards the sun as it dropped into the water.