Suzanne Harrington: You need a thick skin to be a sea swimmer, but it's fun and free
You need a thick skin to swim in winter, says Suzanne Harrington. Picture: istock
WINTER 2021 style options have been narrowed down to a single requirement: My garment of choice must stop me dying of hypothermia. Never mind your slouchy loungewear: We all have wardrobes full of that, having not dressed properly since March. (Can anyone remember what a bra looks like? Me neither).
No, what matters right now is not dying of exposure while exercising outdoors in January, as we try, indoors, not to die of Covid-19. Military-grade ponchos, wellies, trainers, and layer after layer of 'sweat-wicking' are required. (I have no idea what 'sweat-wicking' means.) 'Does it look alright?' has been replaced with 'Is it waterproof?’
Closed gyms, yoga studios, and swimming pools have made penguins of us all: Squat, bloody-minded, and faintly comical, as we waddle down windswept beaches towards icy seas. All we need is a mellifluous David Attenborough voiceover: "And here, on this most inhospitable, stony beach, the increasing phenomenon of menopausal females can, once again, be seen shedding their dryrobes and immersing themselves with much shrieking, swearing, and gasping into an environment they would ordinarily consider hostile. Notice their change in skin colour as they re-emerge a livid pink."
We are all sea swimmers now. People who have never dipped as much as a big toe into any sea except the warm, flat Med in August — by 'people', I mean me — have taken, in desperation, to wading into seawater so cold that it burns, doing the Wim Hof breathing thing (like the huffing exhalations of actresses in film labour, but without the beads of fake sweat) to prevent cardiac arrest by the time the water reaches our knees.
We do not do this because it is pleasurable. Walking into 8°C seawater in nothing more than neoprene booties, a bikini, and a bobble hat, could, under normal circumstances, result in psychiatric intervention. Just not now. And if you go with people hardier than yourself, who are long-term winter swimmers and who pooh-pooh modern indulgences, like dryrobes, and who, instead, roughly dry off with an old hand towel, your burning shame will keep you warm. Your desire not to be so pathetic will propel you into the frigid waves.
Being too old for drugs, I do it for the high. And, boy, do you get high: It's not about the exercise, but the feeling of whoosh afterwards; the pure euphoria as you stagger back up the beach like a clubbed seal, your skin so numb that the land temperature feels warm even in the frost; the hysterical laughter because your motor skills have temporarily frozen and you can't co-ordinate your limbs back into your clothes; the flask of hot coffee strong enough to jumpstart a tractor so that you can drive home in a straight line, and then that heavenly, hot shower. In these odd times, we take all the free fun we can get.
