It’s 7:24am, and I pull the blankets over my head, “ditching swimming today” I think to myself, glancing out the window at the dark grey skies.
Insomnia kept me awake last night, and I whiled away the midnight hours reading Akenfield by Ronald Blythe. I think I need more sleep, but there’s an inner dialogue tussle. I don’t know where that voice in my head that said “get up” came from, but I follow orders. Bleary-eyed I quickly dress and walk across the road to the foreshore. The wide dirt road that runs along the riverbank is quiet in the fog, there’s no one around, no dog walkers, no birds, just stillness. It’s 7:38am and it’s a hasty dash to the swimming spot at the boat ramp, where I’m sure I’ll be rewarded with smooth, beckoning waters reflecting golden dawn skies*.
Dammit, that was not what greeted me this morning.
The river was grey and choppy, the wind brisk, the fog still thick, the sun ages away. Even the ducks and swans had taken refuge on dry land, huddled on the banks. I can’t do this today, that inner voice says, but once you arrive at the boat ramp there’s really no turning back.
There’s only four other swimmers today, usually there’s up to a dozen. I quickly strip off down to swimmers and a beanie and walk into the cold waters. At about 9C it’s much warmer than the air temp of 3C, and it feels good to submerge and escape the chilly breeze. My neighbour describes the cold water like wearing a peppermint jacket, and I’m stealing that, with his permission. It’s an exhilarating few minutes as I swim against the tide, sun strikes the green hills to the west but it’s definitely winter down here on the water. “Only eight days till the Solstice!” we cry, feeling a sense of triumph that we’re almost at the turning point.
It hurts to get out into the cold air, skin bright red and tingling, I can’t feel my fingers or toes. I shiver in the cold breeze and clumsily get dressed, clothes cling to my damp skin and my fingers don’t work properly. I walk home quickly to write down these words, because I found them in the choppy waters and I don’t want to lose them.
I’ve been swimming most mornings in the river since February. At 7:45am every day of the year, a group called the Franklin Frosties take a daily dip, and have done so for about two and a half years. Which is remarkable in itself because swimming in the Huon river is not really a thing here. There’s hardly any public access points, the waters are dark and cold, that alone should be enough to dissuade anyone to jump in. Plenty of rowing, sailing and fishing happens on the water, just not much happens in the water.
No one is more surprised than me that after living in the Huon for 17 years, I finally discovered the joys of swimming in the river. I’ve been addicted to many things in my life, cigarettes, caffeine, online shopping to name a few, but never in a million years did I think I’d get addicted to the dopamine rush of cold water swimming.
But an irresistible magic happens when you jump in the cold tannic waters. After the initial shock, your body acclimatises and you feel like you’re a part of the river, surrounded by breathtaking landscapes, huge skies, the sun rising over the eastern hills greeting the day. The brackish river water feels soft and silky on your skin, not harsh like the sea, and it sounds crazy but it feels warm, not in a physical sense, but in a wellbeing sense. Perhaps it’s being in nature, sharing the river with a variety of birds, watching it change every day; low tide, high tide, tide coming in, tide going out, benign one day, pernicious the next. Whatever it is, cold water swimming is a bandwagon I’m happily jumping on.
As I walk home, my skin tingles from the cold and smells faintly of river mud, but I never have a hot shower straight after, it seems a shame to rinse away the river magic with chlorinated tap water. I warm up with thick wooly jumpers and hot drinks, letting the feel of the river linger.
People say you’re brave swimming in the cold, but for me, it’s much easier to jump in the river at 7:45am everyday than it is to show up here. I reckon writing and publishing your thoughts is much braver. So with that same voice in my head who told me to get up and go for a swim, I’m showing up here, sharing words, river water on my skin.
The End.
* A bit like the picture above taken a week ago.
Michelle I love the way you’ve described this, you almost have me wanting to get up and find cold water to start my day in.
I hope the same voice that pushes you into the icy water pushes you to write more often too x