With apologies, I must smash the glass on the case marked: “X days since the Guardian published an article about wild swimming.” Don’t worry: I am not here to extol the life-giving properties of cold water or of being “at one” with nature. If I can find a sympathetic read on the eye-rolls directed at open-water swimming (much of which, to be honest, feels little short of thinly veiled misogyny, given its popularity with women), it’s that so much of it skews painfully individualistic: singular voyages of discovery clad in neoprene. But for me, the loveliest thing about sea swimming is the sense of community it’s created, rooting me in my distant home town.
I grew up in Cornwall and started swimming in the sea when I was small. (I agree with Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett that when you live somewhere coastal, it’s just called “swimming”, no faddy branding needed.) Back then, I liked to swim alone, paddling out far enough that I could sing pop songs to myself where no one could hear, and staying in so long that my lips went blue and I had to be forcibly extracted and revived in the shower. But three years ago this month, when I returned home to Falmouth for a spell after lockdown finally lifted, my friend Flo invited me to swim as part of a small group of women who met early each morning at Swanpool beach. Our ages ranged from early 30s to late 60s. Flo soon moved to a different town and stopped coming, but I kept going, pleased to have a regular outdoor appointment and fresh faces to see during the endless months of working from home.
