Polar Bear in the Fens

 

Today, I shrugged off my early winter blues, pulled on a swim suit and drove out to a remote little village on the banks of the River Cam, downstream from Cambridge in the Fens. This spot is so remote, that the pub nearby is called The Five Miles From Anywhere. The scene that was greeting me was what the Scots would call driech -- foggy and damp. There was a certain, mystical beauty in the way that the river merged with the sky, in a blanket of condensation on a very short horizon. But nobody in their right mind would call it an inviting prospect for slipping in to the river for a swim. I took a picture as I waited for my friend, Catheryn to arrive. When she did, apologising for being late, like I had been, we commiserated about the lack of sunshine that had been forecast. 

"I wouldn't have come if we hadn't arranged to meet," she admitted. I agreed. It wasn't the first time that we had made this admission to each other in this very spot. 

We sighed, and then started stripping down to our swimsuits on the river bank. I was undressed first, and, not being willing to stand around in the damp long enough to think about what I was doing, I stepped off the grassy bank into the water. I took a few tentative steps, avoiding the big rock that I had stubbed my toe on once or twice before, but which was easily spotted in today's clear-glass, still surface, and then pushed out into the water. I puffed and panted a bit, and tried to convince myself and Catheryn that it really wasn't that bad, before deciding that it really was quite bad, and shut up to concentrate on forcing my arms and legs into a stilted breaststroke. 

After making my way about 40-50 meters into and along the middle of the water, I glanced back at the bank to see how Catheryn was doing. She was picking her way carefully down the slipway, into the water. With neoprene boots on, her feet were a little more protected from the slippery edges of the concrete tiles, so she could take a more gradual approach to the water than I had. But we both knew that whatever approach you use, at 3 degrees Celsius air temperature and about 8 degrees water temperature, on a murky November day in England, the cold shock of immersing yourself in a natural body of water was literally breathtaking. I trod water for a while, and then swam back towards Catheryn a little, waiting for her to catch up. Part of the reason for swimming with a friend, beyond the safety element, was to share the moment of shock and awe.

By the time Catheryn caught up with me, my skin was getting numb, and a delicious tingling feeling had taken over. I was breathing a little more naturally as well, and was able to appreciate the view of a serene swan gliding into the mist ahead. The surface of the water felt completely still. The joy was setting in.

"Okay?" I checked with Catheryn. 

"Yep. You?" she responded. When your breath is short, conversation can be terse. 

"Yep." 

I turned and we breaststroked further up the river, approaching the bend up ahead.

"Don't think I'm going to get to the tree today." Catheryn commented, referring to our usual turning point. Or, what had been our usual turning point in earlier months, when the water was a few degrees warmer.

"That's fine. Me neither," I reassured her.

As we made our way under the power lines, we chatted a bit more, our breath coming a little easier, although we both decided that we weren't in the mood for submerging our faces today. A sedate, heads-up breaststroke was better for conversation anyway.

"That's about 6 minutes," Catheryn pointed out, "better turn around."

"Okay," I agreed. 

As we are still acclimatising to the colder temperatures, we are careful to keep track of our time in the water. Catheryn tends to stick to about 10 minutes, I sometimes push it a minute or two longer. I have more of what wild swimmers jokingly refer to as "bioprene" than Catheryn, who is generally fitter and leaner than me. While some swimmers wear wetsuits, made of neoprene, Catheryn and I are relying on our natural, bodily insulation layers to keep us protected from the cold. Hence, biological "neoprene" or "bioprene".

After doing my first winter dips back in January, as a sort of New Year's challenge to myself, and then enjoying wild, outdoor swimming more and more over the summer and autumn, I signed up, in a moment of madness, to the Polar Bear Challenge this winter. Polar Bears commit to swimming in open water at least twice a month from November to March, at different levels, which correspond to different distances they have to complete. There is a Penguin level, which allows swimmers to wear any or all layers of neoprene or other synthetic layers that they want. But all of the other levels of Polar Bears commit to wearing nothing other than a standard swimsuit, and a latex swim cap. I am doing the Gold level of the challenge -- which means at least two swims a month of 250m or more, and a total of 5000m over the whole 5 months. The advice from MamaBear (Pauline Barker, a champion ice swimmer who sends out helpful and encouraging weekly missives) is to do more of your distance for Gold in November and December, as there is a lag in water cooling compared to air temperatures, so the really cold water temperatures do not happen until February or March.

At 2300m so far, after today's estimated swim distance (thanks to Google maps), I am on track for the Gold level so far, as long as I keep getting in the water. As someone who was pretty competitive about distances and times a long time ago in my youth, this is a very different kind of challenge. But since then I have had injuries and illnesses that have made it hard for me to recognise my own body, and it is a relief and a strange delight to challenge myself in a different way. Swimming 250m is barely a warm-up for most athletes, but most of those same athletes might think I am crazy for doing it in sub-10 degree water in nothing but my swimsuit. This challenge is less about athletic achievement for me, and more about my desire to move my body, and reconnect with the natural world. 

In the last year I have developed signs of a chronic disease, which has brought new experiences of chronic pain and fatigue. As well as being challenging physically, that has caused mental struggles as I have tried to figure out what that means about my self-identity and self-respect. Swimming gives me some freedom from the weight and pain, and the cold exerts a kind of magical analgesia on my pain, too. So, for now, I will be maintaining my transmogrification to Polar Bear, even if I still grumble on the riverbank before I get in.