I hated the idea of sea swimming

And now I'm hooked. Here's why...

When friends and family would race towards the shoreline on Christmas morning, I would always hang back and hold the coats (and the hip flasks). The Designated Dessie of staying warm and dry, I couldn't think of anything worse than purposely putting myself into a state of discomfort for shits and giggles. Where was the thrill? What would I actually get out of it? Aside from the smug selfie, of course. It could hardly be a stress reliever for me personally when the mere idea of it made me break out in hives. As far as I could see, people were convincing themselves of benefits that simply did not exist. And so I was happy to sit out the one activity that the wellness industry was hellbent on promising would transform my life. 

And now I am a sea swimmer. Well, sea swimmer is probably a bit of a stretch because I'm not a very good swimmer, but I am most certainly a weekly sea dipper. It started in the summer when I reluctantly agreed to join a group of friends for a sauna and a swim at Dublin's Portmarnock Beach. One particular friend was home visiting and rallied the troops; I didn't want to miss out on the opportunity for quality time with her. What's more, she had been going through a rough time, and if this was something that would lift her spirits, I would be there with bells on. I was dreading the swim. Not just the cold or the combination of being wet and sandy and the impossible task of getting dry afterwards (do not try to put leggings on after a swim, like ever) but also the self consciousnesses associated with stripping down to a swimsuit on a seaweed-speckled Irish beach. Anyway, I'd committed to doing it so in I went (or in I thrashed, rather). I didn't swim much that day, but I got in up to my shoulders, lolled about and then emerged feeling surprised not only that I had done it but that I had - dare I say it - enjoyed it. I was so invigorated by the realisation that maybe I could do hard things (or at least things that seem hard to me) that I hopped into an ice bath, which I found doable again. Granted, I only did about 15 seconds, but it was 15 seconds I didn't know I had in me. I was beaming. Couldn’t wait to tell the next person who’d listen.

It sounds so contrived, but truly, when you're handed evidence that you're made of stronger stuff than you previously thought, your outlook changes instantly. That group swim was a once-off, but I then joined another friend who was fond of the odd sea swim. It has now become our thing. Sunday Swim Club. We quickly realised that the rainy, less appealing days are always the best because of what's known in psychology as the contrast principle. When you're not too warm going in, the cold of the sea doesn't feel as shocking because there's not that strong a contrast. Whereas if you go in on holiday, when you're baking in the sun, it might feel a whole lot colder by comparison, making it a much harder transition. It also feels so much more cleansing and cathartic on those days, the energy and fizz of the waves crashing over your body, charging you up. We've been going every Sunday since, and it is a ritual for which I am so grateful.

We schedule the sauna for 8.40 am. She picks me up at 8. We have a 25-minute drive to the beach while the rest of the world hits their snooze button. We have deep, effortless, energising chats - honouring whatever we're feeling, be it down in the weeds of my parenting struggles or her needing a pep talk to take the next step in her career. Last Sunday, I cried on the way (that'll make sense if you've been reading my recent posts). When we pull up beside the beach, I often forget that we're here to swim. We stroll down to the sand, which is when the doubt usually sets in - 'Why are we doing this? Whose idea was this anyway? I don't want to do this at all today. We should just go for coffee! No, we will feel so good afterwards’, etc. We peel off the layers and run towards the water (going in slow does not work for us). Wavy days are better because the water is always warmer, even though I don't love being engulfed by a wave. We laugh and wince about the water hitting our vaginas because that's always the hardest part of getting in. And how our boobs disappear in the cold, leaving nothing but razor-sharp nipples behind. We joke about how hairy we are, though we have zero intention of ever shaving any part of our body for the occasion. We don't care what we look like. We have chats with other swimmers, unperturbed by our bum cheeks (or theirs) or the cellulite that we've been brainwashed to despise. We don't need a spray tan to be here. We just need to show up. 

We get a little further out, and again, the panic of how we'll get down to our neck sets in. We hold hands, count to three and dip down. Then we count to ten or fifteen, breathing deeply and convincing our respective vagus nerves that we are not in any harm, that we can surrender, that we are okay. And then the magic happens. The cold leaves our bodies, and we either jump through waves or swim parallel to the shore on calmer days, chatting about life and forgetting our other commitments or responsibilities. Our bodies adjust, and if it is not for the commitment to the sauna, there are days we do not want to leave the water. Then we head up to the sauna, where I break out in a head-to-toe heat rash, after which we head to a gorgeous cafe - where everyone has been for a swim, so it's a given that we all resemble drowned rats - and have freshly baked almond croissants and coffee. There are no perfectly curated Sunday brunch Instagram posts out here at this time of day. And it’s bloody brilliant. The drive home always has a different energy about it; a quiet satisfaction. We carry on with our respective days, not transformed per se, but a little bit better adjusted. 

For me, personally, it has become a physical release, a letting go of the tension and emotion I have held throughout the week, especially relating to my son's separation anxiety. I joke that I only do it because it's the one place he won't follow me. He grips my arm as I try to leave, but once I get the text that he's calm, I give myself permission to fully switch off. He's with his dad, and I'm not needed for this one hour of the week. In contrast to the ways in which parenting has felt like one massive endurance test of late, the swim feels like a luxury. I can do hard things. It makes me wonder what else I might be capable of. It's one thing I can control. I can control my breath, anchoring myself in the sand - I never go out of my depth - and even if the strongest wave comes, I can hold myself steady, letting it break over me or I can move with it, because both responses have their merit. Again, it sounds like the kind of bullshit I'd have rolled my eyes at just a few months ago, but I am happy to say I have been utterly humbled by it. I now see what everyone was talking about. I hope to continue going, but I won't hold a gun to my head about it; if it becomes something that will cause me distress, I won't do it to prove a point. For now, it's the right amount of discomfort. It offers optimal anxiety, and the anxiety part of it is very brief, making it the kind of experience that expands your comfort zone and increases your resilience. 

Don't expect to see me signing up for anything that makes it competitive—that's just not me—but if you see me out there on a Sunday morning, do say hi. 

Lastly, should you be inspired to see if you also don’t hate it, these things have helped me: a swimsuit with very thick fabric - my one zips up to my neck. It’s from Sweaty Betty. As it gets colder, I'll get one with arms. I bought 12 euro swim shoes that are less about providing warmth and more about removing the worry about standing on something that might give you the ick (or sting you). A Dry Robe does not dry you; it just keeps you warm (which means they are somewhat of a con because a regular coat can also keep you warm at a fraction of the price), so you still need a towel to dry off thoroughly. I learned that the hard way. And don't be put off by the days where the weather leaves much to be desired; they are the days we've felt the most comfortable in the water (provided it's not concerningly choppy, of course). 

Photo by Matt Howard on Unsplash