A teal sea tosses up white caps on its surface. Cumulous clouds with silver bellies sweep across the sky, and a brisk breeze raises the hairs on my exposed arms. Pairs of cyclists in lycra pedal past on the road above, glancing at us with bemused expressions as we shiver in togs on the small winter beach, wrestling with our flapping swim robes.
I shove my feet into my thick dive booties, squish down my cap and tug on my gloves – this is not the season for elegance. Stepping into the cold sea makes my legs sting, but I continue. Am I swearing, laughing, singing the high notes of someone whose body temperature is dropping? Yes, I am. Stepping in further, I experience the inevitable ‘fanny freeze’ (a useful term I picked up from an open water online group), and then, finally, plunge in up to my neck and feel the shivering relief of doing the hardest bit, and I take longer, calmer breaths and feel myself surrounded by water and yes it’s cold, probably just under 10 degrees thanks to the sleet and gale southerlies that recently howled through the city, but it feels so good now that the four of us are in, and our legs kick about as we bob around, an oystercatcher shimmies above the surface a short distance away, the wind ripples the water, and a powdering of snow dusts the mountains across the harbour.
A fifth person arrives at the beach slightly late and we watch as she enters the sea, walking carefully, silently, until she is all the way in, her gloved hands held together as if in prayer. She’s breathing in an even rhythm and I admire her serene, silent entrance and almost wish I had done the same (but not quite, because I enjoyed the drama).
A few minutes later I get out because I’m shivering and know the afterdrop awaits, so I reverse the steps: peel off the wet gloves, struggle out of the stiff boots, toss aside the cap and quick as a whip I’m out of my togs under my purple hooded towel, then dressed in merino pants, tee and a loose jersey, my pink fluffy pompom hat, shoes and a jacket, sipping hot Red Bush tea from a thermos, taking photos of some of the others who are still bobbing in a small circle of laughter, then drive home out of that grey northerly wind, happy, rinsing off my salty gear under the hose for next time.
Life in the fast(er) lane
It was Wednesday night, and I was in the changing room after another hour of swim squad. Swim squad involves three lanes (slow, medium, fast), many laps and drills (kicks only, backstroke, breaststroke, swimming with fists closed…), the chlorine smell, and splashing sounds bouncing off the high walls.
When I came out of the cubicle, Barb my swim coach was waiting for me. She handed me a container, and because she usually only comes into the changing rooms to return property left at the poolside – more than once she’s come in to hand me my water bottle – my first reaction was to say, “That’s not mine.” She shook her head. “These are for you, for being top of the class tonight.”
I peeled back the plastic lid and inside were 8 perfect eggs, laid by Barb’s chickens.
I was so touched that I almost cried, but held it together. In the past few weeks my speed and technique have improved quite a bit thanks to tips from Barb and others, watching videos, and, of course, practice.
The next morning at home we had poached eggs for breakfast, a rare weekday morning treat, and I made custard with the yolks and a pavlova with the whites. Very tasty, and I promise to avoid the eggs-cellent pun (oops, too late).
Video analysis
I ‘treated’ myself to a video analysis session, a service offered by a local swim coach. He lowered his GoPro into the pool while I swam a couple of laps, then he took the raw footage home and sent it back to me with pauses, markups, and audio of his analysis. It was very helpful! I can see what I’m doing well and what I need to work on. For example, I’m over-rotating when I turn left to breathe (he said I only need to have one eye above the surface), which causes me to kick my legs out to keep my balance.
It felt a bit awkward to watch myself swimming from a fish-eye perspective, but also heartening that I looked so relaxed in the water when just a couple of years ago I couldn’t swim freestyle at all. And I am finally putting my head down instead of looking around like a meerkat on sentry duty.
This week I’m learning about…
I’ve known about bioluminescent creatures in the sea for a while, but never thought about why they have bioluminescence. Last week we learned that deep-sea critters use bioluminescence for communicating, attracting prey, attracting mates, and even for defending themselves against predators (like the ‘fire breathing shrimp’ I shared last newsletter). I love the idea of all these millions of little lights floating through the darkness, hundreds and even thousands of metres below the surface.
Another source of activity in the deep sea is hydrothermal vents, which were only discovered by humans in 1977. Tall, chimney-like structures formed by cold water seeping through fissures in the sea floor and connecting with magma, spewing geothermal water upwards that is mixed with molten metals and surrounded by endemic marine life that has adapted to this hot, chemical ecosystem.
Listening to: A Tidal Year podcast, a UK podcast about the joys of wild swimming.
Just started reading: Turning by Jessica Lee about swimming in 52 lakes during a year in Berlin. (I lived in Berlin, in 2000 and again in 2004, and loved it. I only swam in one or two lakes though, and that was in the height of summer, always followed by Pommes mit Mayo (fries and mayo, a popular European snack).
Also reading: Below the Edge of Darkness: Exploring Light and Life in the Deep Sea by Edith Widder. Edith is a marine biologist who has led the way in studying deep-sea bioluminescence, and she writes beautifully. The opening paragraph, about her experience inside a single-person submersible that started filling with water 500 metres below the surface, had me hooked.
And just because…
A beautiful double rainbow over the sea yesterday.