Wild Swim, Staggered Nerve

Learning to swim in the wild

I can’t always do it. You’d think it just takes practice, but the temperature changes and the conditions change every day. I’m realising that the ponds at Hampstead Heath are easier to be brave in (I mean no shade here friends, hear me out). Particularly at the Kenwood Ladies pond, there’s the promise of a warm shower and a sheltered changing room. You can just swim a few metres from one ladder to the next if you like. There’s camaraderie, there’s support, there’s the reassurance of life guards. I have my fail-safe method of getting in: step down the ladder, step down again, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, glide into the water. Breathe.

The Mixed Pond at Hampstead Heath

In wilder rivers and lakes, the journey in is always different. Sometimes it’s a wading start - you can’t just plunge in and start swimming, you have to stagger over loose and slippery rocks, inching through the cold as it climbs up your legs. Invariably I lose my nerve. When we went to Sharrah Pool on the River Dart, him and I, I stood at the side, watching him glitter and wriggle on the sun-dappled side of the water. I was stuck in the shade, shivering, with the water only up to my knees, before I returned to the bank to sit on a rock in my fleece. 

The River Dart

If it’s possible to launch right in, I will do so with only a smattering of expletives (sorry mum and dad) before calming to contented sighs and smiles. But I can’t always have it my preferred way. Basically, I’m learning how to wild swim for real. I’m trying to learn - and struggling to learn - how to apply myself even when conditions are not what I wanted or envisaged. In ultra running, this is my greatest failing, and I feel that if only I could break it down, it would open up space in other parts of my life, too. 

Farleigh Hungerford

I really like going to Farleigh Hungerford. It’s a section of the River Frome beside a weir and is believed to be the oldest swimming club in the country, dating back to the 1930s. It has a changing area, a stretch of grass for sunbathing, a couple of ladders into the water, a rope swing and a board for jumping in. It has a warm, wholesome atmosphere. I can’t get enough of it. 

My Weird Fatigue™️ has steadily been getting worse (more tests incoming), but the cold water seems to help. We went to Farleigh Hungerford a couple of weeks ago, despite a smattering of rain. Keen not to lose my nerve, I stripped down to my swimming costume as quickly as I could and headed for the water. I couldn’t put my booties on after kicking my feet through the wet grass, but no matter, I left them on the bank and descended the ladder. Step down, step down again, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, glide into the water. Breathe.

It’s funny, I get in quickly but only last about five minutes. He dithers on the ladder, working up the courage, but once he’s in, he’ll swim and dive and jump around for a good twenty minutes. I will sip my tea wearing all of my layers while he lets the current carry him down to the weir, gets out, runs back up to the ladder and jumps in again. Here, today, I am making my way upstream to a tree I’ve nominally designated as my target. I turn my head and see him launch into the water (which thought finally stops him hesitating?) and I delight in seeing him in the middle of the river, swimming in a little rain and a little sun against a backdrop of leaves and trees and the weir. By now, my body has settled into the cold rush and it has started to feel okay. I get gentle tingles down my sides and either side of my spine. It is lovely. Fallen leaves and twigs float past my neck. 

I reach the tree, turn around and let the current carry me back to the ladder. That’s about the right duration for me. But I greedily want more. Not today, but soon. Once he’s finished bobbing up and down the river, we discuss the next soonest possible opportunity to come back: tomorrow evening?

After a day of continuous rain and a continuous effort (for me) to keep that nerve, we get in the car and head to the river. As we drive through puddles that splash up as high as the windows, I giggle as I feel the nerve falter, and he tells me to prepare for it to be unswimmable. 

Yes, maybe you can see where this is going. I didn’t, not really. I didn’t know what we would see. But yes, there it is, a high, gushing and unsafe current of water rushing towards the weir. If you were to let go of the ladder and get swept up in it you’d likely need to be thrown a rope to return to the bank. He bravely dips in, he even swims a bit, while I stand shivering in the rain. 

A couple of tourists from Derbyshire come by. They stop to chat in utter bafflement that anyone would swim in the river at all, let alone on a day like today. We inadvertently become the tourist board for Farleigh Hungerford, answering questions while he remains waist deep in the water and I brush rain droplets off my face. The couple have a pet on a lead which I blithely assume is a dog; I don’t even look at it until they remark at his meowing. It’s their cat. They are walking their cat. “You’ve seen it all, now!” they say as they leave, “and so have we!”

By the end of that chat, I have no nerve left with which to dip into the water. My precious nerve, that carefully preserved thing. But no visit to this place is wasted - it is very beautiful, and we go back to the car after a good gawp at the fading, orangey stormy light. 

I regretted not getting into the water enormously. I made all of the excuses: the current, the couple, my nerve, I would rather be able to properly swim than just dip, etc. But really, I was just a big scaredy cat.

I hope that in failing I am learning. The thirst for the water remains, after all, and the desire will eventually outweigh the excuses. Getting in never gets much easier, but for me, the regret of the missed swims gets harder.