Swim and tonic
Never one to pass a body of water without at least considering jumping in, Helen Mason reveals more about her passion for outdoor swimming
I HAVE long been drawn to water. Ask my friends and family what it is like to spend time outdoors with me and they will probably recall an occasion when I tried (successfully or otherwise) to entice them into some form of wild swim. I was brought up a reluctant walker (at first), but with more than 40,000 lakes and almost 8,000 miles of coastline in mainland UK alone, it is perhaps no surprise that I was eventually drawn into the water rather than simply walking alongside it.
The combination of stifling air at the local swimming pool and the constant need to keep an eye out for the everlooming tiled end of the pool soon put me off indoor swimming. I much preferred to feel the soft ground between my toes and the breeze on my face. And given that this is the UK, this inevitably meant getting used to the feeling of cold water on my skin. It’s for good reason that my definition of a ‘swim’ is a minimum of 30 strokes and getting my head under…
In her seminal mountain memoir, The Living Mountain, Nan Shepherd writes of how plunging into a cold Cairngorm pool ‘seems for a brief moment to disintegrate the very self; it is not to be borne: one is lost, stricken, annihilated. Then life pours back’.
I feel exactly the same: the nervous anticipation before a cold-water swim, the shudder-inducing first contact with the cold water, the shock of complete immersion and then the euphoria of having lived to tell the tale – I find all of it invigorating and addictive. Getting in almost always seems daunting, but as a family friend asked: “When have you ever regretted getting in the water?”
The physical benefits of cold-water swimming are well documented and there is a shock-to-the-system, shake-you-out-ofa-funk type of mental invigoration that, for me, only a freezing dip (and the inevitable choice language that accompanies it) can provide. As adventurer and author Alastair Humphreys writes, wild swimming is ‘the simplest antidote I know to impending depression, stress, or taking yourself too seriously’.
This simplicity of quite literally immersing myself in wild places is to my mind what makes wild swimming the perfect way to experience them. As Roger Deakin writes in Waterlog: A Swimmer’s Journey Through Britain: ‘You are in nature, part and parcel of it, in a far more complete and intense way than on dry land’.
I feel at first-hand the power of nature when the pull of a river’s course carries me along, or sea waves push me over as though I am nothing more than a pebble. It’s possible to feel the textures of different places: grainy sand dragged from under the soles of the feet by busy currents on a beach; toes sinking into cool riverbed mud; or bracing against sharp, loch-side stones.
There is also a raw sense of the natural rhythm of a place: the changing seasons, the rising and setting sun, the turning tides.
And no two swims are the same, even when returning to the same location; I have shivered purple-and-pink postswim at Oldshoremore Beach near Sandwood, hurriedly dressing with nothing but a towel to protect me from the biting spring wind, but I’ve also air dried in the sun’s warmth late on a perfect July evening in the very same place.
Slow and steady
I am no technical, long-distance swimmer. I lost the ability to swim even vaguely respectable front crawl years ago and now prefer breaststroke for its slower pace and how it allows me to enjoy the surrounding sights and sounds. My one foray into the world of organised racing was a 3km jaunt in the River Thames at Marlow, which I swam almost entirely breaststroke – much to the dismay of the marshals. As elating as that achievement felt it also confirmed that the world of wetsuits, goggles and swimming caps was not for me. I’m more of a make-do-in-your-sports-bra-and-pants, using-your-scarf-as-a-towel-type of swimmer. Cheap, cheerful and chafe-free.
There is something in these small acts of rebellion – not swimming in the indoor pools or outdoor lidos where we are ‘meant’ to swim, and not wearing the proper gear that we are ‘supposed’ to wear – that feels wonderfully mutinous. It speaks of freedom and liberation.
In bypassing all the changing room admin and swimming pool infrastructure, I find there is a more direct connection with the water itself, with the willpower required to jump in the only barrier separating me from the water.
Once I’ve taken this leap, done my 30 strokes and got my head under, I often catch myself looking back to shore. Seeing land from the water can offer a new perspective on familiar landscapes – a feeling I had most recently during the Trust’s staff gathering on Skye in 2019. We’d enjoyed wonderful views from the Sabhal Mòr Ostaig across to the Knoydart peninsula from the moment we arrived. But it was only until an after-dinner dip found me floating on gentle waves and looking over to the Knoydart hills as the evening light faded below a bank of cloud, that I thought: ‘This is why the Trust does what it does’.
For many people, the joy of wild swimming is in the silence and solitude. I have welcomed many solo swims as decompression after a busy workday. After all, it’s hard to beat the all-encompassing calm of swimming underwater. But in revisiting some of my strongest wild swimming memories I also realise that wild swimming is mostly a way of connecting with others rather than finding time away from them.
Thinking back, I have sealed many a new friendship and cemented many an old one with a dip. You can’t help but feel closer to someone once you’ve shared in the initial trepidation and subsequent elation that comes with wild swimming. I have flirted on a second date, jumping waves together in rough seas near Edinburgh, and floated in comfortable silence with a long-term partner in a warm river near Oxford. I have celebrated birthdays and marked career milestones. I find excitement in the shared vulnerability and find comfort in the safety and strength in numbers.
We often associate wildness with the high up and far away hills, our eyes raised towards the uppermost peaks, our feet moving steadily towards the furthest hill passes. But there is also something to be said for slowing down and sinking into the water to gain a fresh perspective on the power of nature and our place in it.
Recently, I stumbled across the Scots Gaelic word Snàmhach, which means, variously, floating or swimming naturally, being fond of swimming, or prone by nature to swim. It’s an adjective perhaps originally meant to describe aquatic animals, but it might not be a bad idea to co-opt it for ourselves too.
Swim films
As part of the Trust’s involvement in a variety of film festivals, we’ve seen an increase in short films devoted to the subject of wild swimming. Here are three of our absolute favourites:
CHASING THE SUBLIME, Dir. Amanda Bluglass (6.40’). A hauntingly beautiful glimpse at the physicality of UK cold-water swimming
TONIC OF THE SEA, Dir. Jonathan Scott (8.16’). A mini-doc exploring the link between sea swimming and mental health
BLUE HUE, Dir. Natasha Brooks (5.13’). How one swimmer uses outdoor swimming to connect with the natural world
Helen Mason is the Trust’s Development Manager
- This story was originally published in the Spring 2020 issue of the John Muir Trust Journal. Become a member to receive our members' magazine twice a year
