Louise O'Neill: The simple joy of sea-swimming and the epiphanies it brings
Louise O'Neill. Picture: Miki Barlok
From May until September, I try and swim in the sea as much as I can. It has become a non-negotiable part of my self-care routine – please don’t hate me for using the phrase ‘self-care routine’, I am but a product of my generation – and I’m not being hyperbolic when I say that sea swimming has been integral to my recovery and well-being.
On a day when I feel sad or anxious, throwing myself into the ocean is the most effective thing I have found to get me out of my head. (I don’t drink or take drugs so the sea is all I have left, okay?) Of course, one of the best things about being a sea swimmer is the talking about being a sea swimmer.
I’m not a particularly hardy person in most aspects of my life – I’m best described as ‘delicate’ – but when I’m swimming, I can pretend I’m Lawrence Oates, choosing certain death rather than jeopardise the survival of my expedition mates. (“I am just going outside and may be some time.”)
When you casually throw in “I’m just off for a swim now” into the conversation and your friend looks at you in awe, the sense of satisfaction and let’s be honest, superiority, is intoxicating. I presume that’s why people do ultra-marathons or climb Mount Everest – to feel better than those who don’t.
Of course, even amongst the sea swimmers, there’s a scramble for moral superiority. I’m considered a fair-weather fan because my Raynaud’s prevents me from swimming in the depths of winter, and while I haven’t bought into the Dry Robe controversy – honestly, they look very warm, you do you – I can’t help but look down upon anyone who wears a wetsuit in June.
However, I have recently bought not one, but two towel ponchos, and am delighted with my life choices so who am I to judge? Let the person without sin cast the first stone, etc. But the reason why I’m writing this column is not to show off (did I mention I like to swim? In the sea? Where it is very, very cold?) but because I had two epiphanies as a result and I wanted to share them with you all. Stand by.
I had stacked my towel, sunglasses, and Birkenstocks into a little pile at the water’s edge and started to walk towards the sea.
I had this sudden flash in my mind where I saw myself take my scrunchie off and tie it around my wrist. But I shook the image off – this was my favourite scrunchie, yes, a large, pink silk extravaganza, but I often wore it swimming and it always dried out perfectly. I was being silly.
The water was rough that day, the waves ferocious, and one all but knocked me off my feet. When I resurfaced, the scrunchie was gone, never to be found again.
Irrelevant, of course, it was just a fancy hair bobble. But it made me think about these nudges we get from the universe, trying to warn us or guide us in the right direction, and how often we dismiss them.
How accustomed we become to ignoring the tiny messages the world gives us, and how easy it becomes to ignore the larger ones as a result.
On my way down the steps, I met a woman walking in the opposite direction. “How is it?” I asked, pretending to shiver. “It’s gorgeous once you get in,” she replied. And having grown up by Inchydoney Beach, I am familiar with the vagaries of this ocean.
I know that the worst thing to do is to hesitate at the water’s edge; better to run in as quickly as you can without thinking about it too much. If you stop to think, you might decide it’s too cold that day, this is a fool’s errand, and you should give up and go home.
Instead, I ran in and dove under a crashing wave and for a second, I forgot everything except for the cold rush of the water against my skin. It was painful for maybe five seconds and then I felt euphoric, aware of the blood pumping through my veins, aware of how wonderfully, insistently alive I was.
And I thought about what that woman said to me as she was leaving the beach – it’s gorgeous once you get in. It’s gorgeous once you get down. Once you let go.
Then I wondered – what was I so afraid of? How could I have allowed a few seconds of discomfort to rob me of the joy that lay beyond it? And where else in my life do I need to dive in, without hesitation?
All The Money in the World. If you have a child between the ages of 9-13 and they’re not reading Sarah Moore Fitzgerald’s work, you’re missing a trick. Her latest book is laced with her trademark compassion and kindness, as well being as a cracking good read about privilege, wealth, and identity. Not to be missed.
If you enjoyed Bridgerton, you’re going to love Reputation by Lex Croucher. If Jane Austen and Mean Girls had a baby, it would look like this novel. It’s tremendous fun.
