“Restrictions made people seek other avenues to get a little control back.” “This last year, people have had no control,” says Gilly McArthur, a climber and cold-water swimmer based in England’s Lakes District. Many of us craved something that would push our worries aside, make us feel like we had a little bit more command over our lives. Winter is always a darker, slower cycle, but this one came hand-in-hand with the uncertainty of a global pandemic. I wasn’t the only one who embraced cold-water swimming last year.
They made me more present, more aware, and they often provided much-needed clarity. As a writer and an artist, I quickly realized that these daily dips were becoming a part of my creative process too. I have never considered myself a swimmer, but I have always wanted to be in the water, and there was something about the cold that kept me returning. I would go to the water, often in the dark of the morning, before diving to work. For the past couple of years I had a tradition of going into the water on the first of the month every month, but last winter, what had been a monthly tradition became a daily ritual. Last winter I got into a cold swimming habit, taking daily dips in the Puget Sound near my home on a small peninsula west of Tacoma. Every inhale keeps me aware of where I am, every exhale another moment of overcoming the temperature. Eventually the sensation softens and an overall layer of cold surrounds my body, like a shield. The water feels prickly, an incessant sting. I keep my head above the water and move my arms and legs in a breaststroke. I push my whole body into the saltwater and focus on my breath, swimming through those first 30 seconds of intense chill. The author standing in cold water (Photo: Luc Revel) I hear the wings of a seagull fly over me. I’m feeling the cold, I’m paying attention. There’s an intensity to this “before” moment, as if I am hardening myself to the task ahead. Yet there’s a part of me that likes to stand here for a few seconds, with half of my body exposed to the winter air, half of it submerged. I know that the sooner I can get my shoulders under the water, the easier the whole endeavor will be. I walk further, submerging my thighs, and then the really hard part: my belly button. I step in, up to my ankles, and then my calves. Knowing I can push past my resistance gives me a boost of confidence. I lean into the physicality of the exercise instead. This hesitation could be all consuming if I let it.Įvery part of my brain is telling me not to get into this water. For a brief moment I consider going back inside where the coffee is. This moment is the hardest: standing and waiting, looking out over the saltwater, wondering how I will ever get in. I don’t need a number to tell me that it’s cold. I didn’t bother bringing a thermometer for the water. I shiver in the morning air, just slightly above freezing. I pull off my bulky wool sweater and toss it on the barnacle-covered rocks, leaving me standing in only my red swimsuit and hand-knit wool hat. I could be sitting inside drinking coffee, but instead I am getting ready for a swim.Īt the edge of the bay, my wool tights come off, neoprene booties on. The kind where the water and sky blend together into one, imbued with a raw, wet cold that seeps into your bones. It’s another gray Pacific Northwest winter morning.