What I think when I think about...
...swimming in winter.
Despite the fear, I knew I could do this again, but the cold was extreme. The first few steps were easier than I expected, perhaps because years of running had numbed my feet. As I walked further out, the cold sharpened surface of the water shaved my legs, the chill finding its way into my calves, my thighs, a relentless icy assault. Moments later the pain gave way to a deep relief, like a red hot blade being thrust into oil, quenched.
The overfamiliar cold took a violent grip on my groin, holding my wide eyed attention for a few seconds. As I stepped further forward, the razor of the water’s surface continued up and over my hips, past my navel, coming to rest around my waist.
I stopped a moment, as the water’s surface, huffed and puffed into a low chop by the wind, sawed at my midriff. I felt my heart change gears, feeling a lag, like a slipping drive belt, a tired pause, then it pumped up to a faster pace. My legs had disappeared. I could only feel the soles of my now dead feet, hostage to the rocky lake bed, and being compressed flat, like old leather soles.
I checked my heart rate. It was at a brisk walking rate of 90, whilst standing still. Without thinking about it, I leant forward and pushed myself off, feeling the molten ice of the water overwhelm my shoulders, as it tried to pull me under. My arms remembered how to swim, whilst my alarmed mind checked my body was still alive. The cold bit hard, down to the bone in my fingers, into my CPR ravaged ribs around my sternum, easing them with a tight squeeze, like an impossibly deep massage.
My heart got to work. My back felt like it was made of glass, about to shatter under the pressure of the cold water that filled its valley, and laid waste to the warmth it found there, clawing it away.
My heart rallied, my breaths eased in sympathy, and I realised I was swimming free, the water so dense at 3.7 degrees that it felt like treacle. My splashes sounded like blades of ice, lurking mere degrees away, waiting to slice and fillet my warm body, and deliver a sashimi delicacy to the fish.
I had waited four months to swim for mere minutes, to remind myself of the closeness of death; close but not quite yet. I swam until my hands froze solid, beyond pain, and my skin started to feel warm. I swam until I felt I could swim all day, fully aware of the water’s cruel deception, a revenge for daring to step in and disturb its winter peace. It was time to get out, whilst I still could. To swim yet another day.