In the swim

The ice-cream headache that hits me is more of a Magnum than a soft serve. After 90 seconds or so the shaft of pain at the base of my brain drifts away, as do I. 

It's sink or swim at this point as mind battles body in a persuasive attempt to convince me that ocean swimming in winter is a bright idea.   

Life in a bubble is brilliant for I am immersed in thousands of them. Effervescent handfuls of salty spume dart past my goggles with every stroke of freestyle. I feel fast and buoyant, channel thoughts of Thorpedo and kick on. But it doesn't last. Ears give in to a relentless tide, my breathing begins to labour and my nose is subjected to an epic irrigated event. Feeling more like a stone fish than porpoise I persevere for there is too much stimulation coursing through my veins. Noradrenaline and cortisol fuel a fight or flight response. Stop now and I'll sink.

Each gulp of air is met by a blinding blast of morning sunshine which cuts through my smeared goggles. The sky dips into a sea teaming with translucent white bait suspended beneath my torso. Filtered light descends the water column to reveal a sculpted sand bed that ducks and weaves for miles. It's breathtaking and different every day.  

Since the end of a Covid summer I've found myself drawn to the sea like a wayward pigeon loitering at the tide line. More squab than gull I feel out of place amongst the old salts. 

I used to belittle the bathers who'd present themselves as potential shark bait, dismissing them as a school of sponge heads. Now, I'm in the swim with all who shuffle through sand at daybreak.

Pods of keratosis-encrusted bodies venture into the deep water. Arms slap the surface like colossal pectoral fins. Some swimmers perform froggy style and barely raise a ripple. This scene is played out along myriad coastlines and in coves across the country by swimmers who crave comfort in discomfort.    

It is addictive, not just the frigid forcefield that envelops one's skin after exiting the water but the fleeting and genuine interaction of people who just love to get wet. Friendships forged over decades endure any wearing of masks and adherence to the 1.5 metre rule. You can see it in one another's eyes. 

Conversation is the same most days. Temperature of water and of sun dominate discussion and underpin the warmth generated between the early morning brigade. Separated by skimpy layers of lycra, strangers become water babies who delight in life's simplest pleasure: swimming. I'm a bit player on this water course for I don't swim the multiple kilometres required to earn the name Poseidon. But it doesn't matter. You make the grade by simply fronting up every morning, rain, hail and hopefully shine.

Numb fingers and toes, chattering teeth and talking gibberish post swim are rite of passage. A hot shower and a cup of coffee soon redress the balance before I retreat to a life locked down.