Wild swimming. Excellent. I can’t wait to plunge into the freezing-cold water.
I mean, bracing water.
I put down my bullet journal and peer through the window at the heaving sea, trying to imagine getting into the water. Actually into it. In February.
I glance at my new black wetsuit, lying pristine and dry—then look through the window again at the forbidding sea. Waves are lashing the shoreline. The seagulls tumbling in the sky above sound plaintive and warning. It’s quite different from the sunshiny blue of my childhood.
My wetsuit’s right there, I tell myself firmly. It won’t take five minutes to change. I should just do it. Get up. Start.
Proceed.
Minutes pass and I don’t appear to be moving. Which is weird, because I want to go wild swimming. Very much so. Obviously.
Then a thought occurs to me. I’ll need to acclimatize. So maybe I should go and feel the water now. Before I put on my wetsuit and get in. Which I am absolutely intending to do.
As I walk down the sand to the surf, a bitter wind catches my cheek, and I shiver, pulling my jacket around myself. But as I reach the waves, a shaft of sun comes out from behind a cloud and I feel a sudden burst of optimism. The sea is glittering in places, here and there. There are drifts of blue. The surging waves seem more inviting.
Plus, I’ll have a wetsuit on, I remind myself as I reach down to touch the water. So it’ll probably be absolutely—
No. No.
I grab my hand out of the water, quelling a shriek. You cannot be serious. That is so cold, it’s burning me. It’s vicious. It’s murderous. There’s not a chance I’m getting in that, wetsuit or no wetsuit. I back away a few steps and stare at the foaming waves, clutching my icy hand, almost indignant that it could be so treacherously freezing. How am I supposed to “acclimatize” when three seconds gives me terminal frostbite? How could anyone? How is this a thing?
As the feeling slowly comes back into my hand, I realize that I’m probably not fully equipped. I should have got wetsuit gloves. And wetsuit boots. And a wetsuit hood. And preferably six wetsuits to wear all layered on top of one another. Or, even better, a flight to the Caribbean. I could be somewhere warm right now. I could be standing in front of a balmy, gentle, caressing sea, not a stroppy British sea with an attitude problem.
I’m so distracted, I don’t notice a stronger wave approaching. I try to jump out of the way, but I’m too late and it washes right over my trainers. I glare at it, outraged. Now my feet are freezing.
“Sod off!” I hear myself shouting at the waves. “You’re too bloody cold!”
I back away from the waves and stand at a safe distance, watching the water churn itself up endlessly, again and again. There’s never any resolution to the sea. There’s never any stillness. It’s supposed to be soothing, but right now I do not feel soothed. I feel cold and cranky and, underneath it all, like a failure, because I bet Wetsuit Girl would be in those waves now, cavorting with the seals, laughing off the cold like the awesome goddess she is.
I fold my arms, staring morosely at the water. Wild swimming. Huh. When did “swimming” turn into “wild swimming,” anyway? Why does everything have to be a thing? It all seems such a challenge. Such an effort. Slowly I sink onto my haunches, then farther down until I’m sitting on the sand. Then I close my eyes and lean back into to a lying position.
I’m just so tired. So bone-tired. So heavy and defeated and kind of nothingy. The waves and seagulls are blurring into one mishmash of sound, which my brain can’t unpick. I’m not entirely comfortable, but nor do I quite have the strength to adjust my limbs. They are where they are. If I get cramp, too bad. If I’m washed away to sea, too bad.
I lie there for about an hour, not quite asleep but unable to move. After a while I notice there are tears running down my face, but I can’t even lift a hand to brush them away. I can’t do anything. I’m out of energy, out of decision-making. Out of everything.
At last I stir and move my legs, disoriented. My head is muzzy and I feel a pang of guilt as I realize I’ve achieved nothing so far except lying on the sand. I rub my face a few times, until I feel a bit more human, then force myself to stand.
I tramp back up to the lodge and summon the 20 Steps app on my iPad. Come on, Sasha. I’m not giving up after one failed step. On to grounding, whatever the hell that is.
As your soles make direct contact with the earth, you will tap into the earth’s natural electrical energy. Your stress levels will lower, your circulation will improve, and you will feel more balanced.
OK. Well, that seems simple enough.
I rip off my wet trainers and socks and cautiously pad out of the lodge. Wincing, I make my way onto a patch of soggy sand and stand there for a bit. I’m trying to channel my thoughts into a positive place. But all my brain seems capable of saying is: Cold feet. Cold feet. Cold feet. I can’t feel any electrical energy. My stress levels are increasing, not decreasing, and my toes are going to turn blue any moment.
Sod this. So much for grounding. On to the next step.
I hurry back into the lodge, consult my bullet journal, then grab my yoga mat and put on some flip-flops. I need something energetic. The hundred-squat challenge. It’s something substantial. Something I can be proud of. And maybe it’ll warm me up.
As I place my mat on the beach, I visualize Wetsuit Girl in the app. In the hundred-squats video, she places her mat on a stretch of pristine dry sand. She’s wearing a turquoise sports bra and matching sleek leggings. The sun is shining on her ponytailed hair, and she looks serene as she bobs up and down.
I, on the other hand, feel drab and windswept. A sharp breeze keeps whipping the ends of the mat up off the sand, which is really unhelpful. I do five squats, then have to pause to unpeel the mat from my lower legs. I try to anchor the corners with stones and manage five more squats before the ends have blown up again. This is hopeless—I should never have bothered with the mat. Thoughtlessly, I step off it, intending to pick it up—whereupon it blows away down the beach. Shit.
“Come back!” I yell, furiously chasing after it, tripping on my flip-flops. “Stupid … bloody …”
At last, with a desperate lunge, I pin the mat down again. Battling as the wind blows it this way and that, I roll it into a sausage, shove it under my arm, then turn to face the sea. Right. Resume.
Hugging the mat, I do three more squats, more slowly this time. Then, after a pause, a fourth. Then I stop. My legs are already aching. My thighs can’t do this.
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m not going to do a hundred squats. Nor can I feel the earth’s electrical energies through the soles of my feet. And as for wild swimming … I shudder at the thought. So that’s three fails already.
Feeling gloomy, I turn, intending to head back to the lodge, whereupon I see a distant figure coming toward me over the sand. A solitary, indistinct figure, making painfully slow progress, like Lawrence of Arabia approaching through the desert. I squint harder, taking in the shuffling gait, the outline of an overcoat. Is that … Herbert?
Yes. It is. And at the rate he’s going, it’ll take him six weeks to reach me.
Grabbing my mat more tightly, I hurry toward him, breaking into a jog as I see that he’s puffing.