THE MORNING RITUAL OF SEA SWIMMING
It comes down to the simple equation of immersing yourself in something far greater than you. Something vast, powerful and unpredictable - yet calm, soothing and all encompassing. It both absorbs and and absolves at the same time.
This should be the answer I give when asked why I’ve developed a morning swim ritual this summer. See also: Because I felt I had to. Because not to would seem like a waste. Because I felt I had no choice. Like the pull of the tide I was drawn into the idea. And now I’m addicted.
The ritual of going for a morning swim has birthed its own side rituals too. The alarm goes off at 6:45. I stretch, yawn and once more marvel at the madness that keeps pulling me from the warmth of the bed, toward a cold body of water. Dressed in my swim gear under shorts and a sweatshirt, I pad barefoot downstairs and make a flask of tea whilst receiving the morning greeting that only your dog will bestow on you. The greeting that indicates it's been weeks since they last saw you instead of mere hours.
I slip out the front door, feet shod in flip flops, into the cool summer morning air and drive the eight minute route to the beach in complete silence. I decided some months ago that I would no longer let the world pierce the silence of my morning sphere - the incessant chatter of the radio is no more. You’d be amazed at the difference this small act of defiance can make to the start of your day.
The avenue that approaches my stretch of local beach has a magical feel to me. I used to think it was down to the size of houses and their proximity to the shoreline. I still wonder who lives in them and hope that they truly appreciate the continual flow of sea air and promise of sandy toes that exist mere steps away.
These days the magic comes from something less tangible but far more priceless in value. It's the long slow exhale that escapes once I turn onto the avenue and find my parking space beside sprawling lawns, towering pine trees and flower beds filled with summer blooms.
I walk from the car, either lost in the kind of thought that can only accompany alone time or sometimes chatting with my two fellow meno mermaids who might have arrived at the same time. That first glimpse of sea state beyond the beach huts is a much anticipated moment - will we get millpond calm or choppy white crests today?
We gravitate toward the same patch of rocks where we’ve claimed our socially distanced, de-robing space and where we see the same fellow swimmers each time we go. I admit to already having favourites in this aqua-loving, septuagenarian-plus group. There’s the lady in the flowery swim hat who always has the biggest smile and the most enthusiastic wave when we see her. Her husband walks along the shore keeping watch whilst she swims and is on hand, ready with a towel when she gets out. When she does, her smile is even broader than before.
And then there’s the couple who swim together - both tall and tanned by the generous spring and summer sun we’ve enjoyed so far. We always greet each other with exclamations of how wonderful the sunshine is (I’m a fair weather swimmer so there is no other type of exclamation), what the sea temperature feels like (how many degrees of cold) and how the direction of the wind will impact the waves (I now gather that a light north westerly makes for the best conditions).
On go the water shoes and in floods the anticipation of the exhilaration to follow. Then the determined walk to the water's edge - propelling forward means no going back. In over toes, ankles, knees - I must be mad - this is freezing. Thighs, tummy and waist - my god am I really doing this again? A few more steps - quick, sharp gasps of breath and that familiar tingling intensity that appears out of nowhere. We egg each other on as to who will get their shoulders under first and then with a final heart racing plunge, we’re in.
Frenetic arm strokes, kicking legs, squeals, laughter, more gasping and usually a few curse words for good measure.
And then I wait for the moment
The moment when my breathing steadies, the temperature becomes bearable and my heart rate calms a little. I turn my face towards the sun, feel the buoyancy that comes from being in a little deeper, but not too deep, and look across the water towards the Isle of Wight. Anything feels possible in that moment and the same three words always pop back into my head. I feel alive.
We swim, tread water, sometimes chatting, sometimes soaking in the goodness of the sea in companionable silence. It doesn’t matter how far we get or how long we stay in - it's the act of being in open water that counts. That and the feeling of euphoria that envelops me when I get out.
Warming up under my dry robe, sitting on a rock in the sunshine, drinking tea from a flask and watching sunlight dance like diamond shards across the surface of the sea. Watching the beach cafe open for the first caffeine seekers of the morning, seeing the same runners on the promenade, hearing the seagulls overhead and listening to the occasional distant bark of a dog chasing a ball into water.
I suppose, like many locals, I feel protective of my tiny patch of beach. It feels like an intimate space where I’ve let so many emotions - happy and sad - sink deep beneath my feet into the sand. I feel a connection with the beach like never before since I started swimming in the sea and it's a connection I find myself guarding fiercely. When the day-trippers and tourists begin arriving to stake claim to their patch, I see it as my queue to leave. It's easy to leave when the promise of a return visit is only ever hours away.
I walk slowly back to the car as the final tendrils of warmth snake over the surface of my skin and that unnamable ecstatic high fades to a continual feeling of peace and calm.
Whatever else there is to come in the day, this time was mine and mine alone. And I’m holding on tightly until the ritual can begin again.
