bound by seaweed threads

(what the water taught me)

I have never loved the cold, and yet — to my own surprise — this will be my third year of winter swimming. The truth is, one day summer came to an end and I wasn’t ready to stop swimming in the sea pool. I’d swum in a winter sea once before, surrounded by my family (a wild requiem for my sea-swimming Grandad) and that strengthened my resolve. Surely, despite evidence to the contrary, a love of chill water must be in my blood? I determined to try and embrace the cold — or more accurately, to let it embrace me.

September swimming was a joy — the air and the water almost the same temperature — and in October, the autumn sunshine warmed me after my solo dips, but I started to lose my nerve. Winter approached, and I wavered. Courage came in a message from my cousin Molly, she’d like to join me for a swim — I wouldn’t be facing November alone. There was ice on my car windscreen on the day we arranged to meet. I scraped it off, and messaged Molly: ‘cold’s just a feeling?!’ It was what our Grandad used to say.

That first swim with her: giggling in our costumes beside the water, gasping at the tight grip of the cold, floating and chatting, fumbling back into clothes, pulling hats down over our heads, and warming our hands on flasks of hot chocolate. I wasn’t ready to swim alone, but I hadn’t realised how swimming would change us together. We immersed ourselves into water, relinquished ourselves to wild. The icy searing clarity of the seawater made us anew, and it pulled us close. We were — we are — swim sisters, bound by seaweed threads. Shared swims create a special kind of sisterhood. Perhaps that’s what the mermaids always knew.

Water shifts endlessly, moment to moment — changed by time, temperature and light. Each swim is different, and each time we seem to exclaim: ‘This! This is our most beautiful swim ever!’ Some days, the sea pool is windswept and choppy, waves splashing and dancing. Others, it is clear and still, sea reflecting sky. My favourite days are cloudy, the water a smooth, perfect teal grey — but however it looks, when I am in the water my stress and worries melt away. It purifies, stripping me back to myself.

Sometimes, I swim to mark a milestone: in the sea on the day I signed the contract for my first book, and then a year or so later, off the same beach, after my book launch. This week, Molly and I marked the fifth anniversary of our swim for Grandad, on a misty, muted morning. The sea pool was softly rippled, but sharply chill enough to make us gasp.

I have never once regretted a swim. Like sitting down to write, convincing myself to do it is always the hardest part. Once I am in, I feel the thrill of it, and afterwards, I positively sparkle. I still don’t love the cold, but now I seek it out — it’s neither good, nor bad, it’s just a feeling. I respect the water, and the water has taught me that I am stronger than I believed myself to be.

There’s always one instant (standing halfway down the steps, splashing water on my arms) when uncertainty seems insurmountable. I have to stop thinking then, and trust — I push myself forwards into the water, and count my breaths until they come easily again. Each time I swim, I remind myself that if I can cope with the cold, I can cope with anything — and I step into its embrace.

Thank you for reading,

Laura x

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PS: The story of my first winter swim is in my book Little Stories of Your Life. If you’re thinking of giving my book as a Christmas gift (or requesting it for yourself!) and you’d like a signed and dedicated copy, you can order from The Cotswold Bookroom here and add your dedication to the order notes.

PPS: To find out more about winter swimming, read the best advice for all outdoor swimmers you’ll ever hear. You might also like these tips on acclimatisation, this thread, this documentary and this book.