I had hoped to find a bit of a rhythm with this newsletter, but as is so often the way, I think I am going to be working this out for a while. Yet the pull to write is still ever present - as is the urge to be by the sea.
Back in 2018, we made the decision that it was time to leave London. Without a clear plan of where to go, many weekends were spent exploring various towns and villages. But we kept coming back to the same thing: to be by the sea.
It took until 2020, between lockdowns, for us to eventually sell our London home and make the move to Hove. And we have never looked back. Not quite on the coast, our house is a five-minute drive to the seafront – far enough away to escape the chaos of the summer day trippers, but close enough for it to be somewhere you can ‘pop’ to. Almost three years in, I am still not tiring of the thrill that takes over when I see the sea in the distance. I wonder if it ever will. My inner child chirps “I can see the sea”. My nervous system dials down a notch. I take a deep breath.
The sea is like a drug.
And it always has been, ever since Orla died. On the Friday before her funeral, we said our final goodbye at the funeral home. Tucking her into her bassinet, we knew that the next time we would be together, she would be in her tiny white coffin. The final goodbye.
We packed up our stuff and headed to an Airbnb in Arundel. A birth announcement crushed my already shattered heart into dust. I sat on the sofa and wept. It was impossible to imagine a time when life could feel doable again.
For the next two days we headed to the beach and walked. Miles along the deserted shores of Climping. Talking, crying and silence on repeat. I don’t remember much of what we said, but I do remember how I felt - I wanted to stay there forever. I couldn’t bear the thought of returning to London for the first funeral I had ever arranged. If I could just stay there and just carry on walking, maybe I could convince myself that this had never even happened.
Every so often, the pebbles would give way to patches of sand. I wrote Orla’s name, hoping that someone would see and read it, whilst also knowing that the sea would soon wash it away. Bittersweet. This photo was the first one I posted to Instagram back in the Dear Orla days. Heavily filtered and heavily saturated with grief.
Is it any wonder that so many grief analogies are sea and ocean related? Waves of grief. Drowning in grief. The depth and ever moving presence of the sea mimics what can only be felt by those who know. There are predictable patterns: tides that rise and fall with precise anticipation. Yet there is also the unpredictability: unexpected waves that knock, pull and drag, Ones that have the power to cause ultimate harm. The sea is an untameable beast that requires respect.
Grief is like the ocean; it comes on waves ebbing and flowing Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming All we can do is learn to swim
- Vicki Harrison
Even before the move, I was curious about cold water swimming. These days social media is saturated with people sharing their photos and videos of their icy-water endeavours, which I imagine could be irritating to those who have little interest or access to such activities.
But I get it – once you start, you want everyone to know how good it is.
There is growing evidence as to the biological and therefore health benefits of cold (and heat) exposure. I enjoy following Dr Susanna Søberg on Instagram for this reason. A metabolic and stress scientist and author of Winter Swimming, she breaks down the science as to how and why this type of exposure helps, what it does to our bodies and what we might be able to expect as a reward for our endeavours.
However, it is the mental health impact that I am most curious about. What is it about the whole process of anticipation and immersion that helps? Is it the cold itself or is it being out in nature? Or, is it actually the sense of community, sharing the thrill with others whilst you whoop and scream into the horizon as the sun rises or falls.
I highly recommend watching The Ponds, the documentary following those who swim year-round at Hampstead Heath Ponds in London. They all have a story to tell, as we all do. And swimming in those ponds through rain, shine and ice is part of their stories of resilience. Grief, loss, mental health struggles, physical health difficulties – swimming in the elixir of the ponds has become part of their toolkit of survival. There is a formal intimacy to the relationships that have evolved. Some swim solo, others in groups with team names and kit to match. Yet they all seemingly have something in common: they are swimming to survive. I felt so moved and inspired by their tender stories that the day after watching, I took my first proper swim in the sea.
It was May 2022, so hardly the depths of winter. But although at this time the air is warming, the sea temperature lags behind. And as a notoriously cold person who has her shower at scalding temperatures, this was certainly a baptism of fire. Full of anxiety and a lack of confidence in my ability to withstand the cold, I met with a group of friends on the pebbly shores. Giddy with anticipation, we shed our clothes and hobbled down to the water’s edge.
And I haven’t looked back.
In her book Wintering, Katherine May dedicates a whole chapter to her experience of cold-water swimming on the Kent Coast. This paragraph in particular spoke to me – the freedom to feel and let go. To express raw emotion and experience without self-consciousness. There is a guttural release that comes with expelling the noises of your discomfort. And for someone like me who has made such little noise in her life - including when birthing and cremating her own daughter – these roars are healing.
Getting into the water seems a complete impossibility. But then we are both striding towards it purposefully, and my shins are wet, and then my thighs. I fall forwards to submerge my body, and realise that we are both sounding off without even thinking about it, not screaming exactly, but singing through the sting of the cold, and the sensation that the breath has been knocked out of us. This is no place for inhibition, or toughing it out. We both call through the thrill of our discomfort.
- Katherine May, Wintering
I am a year into swimming now and have been in the sea at least once in every month. Reaching December and swimming on the day it snowed was a personal achievement. These days I check the wave forecast on the Magic Seaweed app almost as much as I check my weather app. In the summer, weeks are structured around opportunities to swim. To sit on the shore afterwards, sun on face, enjoying the blissed out feeling that radiates throughout every fibre of my body. This is when I feel most at peace.
Interestingly, as my confidence with the cold has grown, so has my fear of the sea. Intrusive thoughts enter my mind at greater velocity. I often feel I could lose my nerve and not return. I watch the ‘proper’ swimmers in awe and wonder what it has taken for them to be where they are - front crawling far out and through the waves. Will I ever get there? But does it even matter?
I have found something that brings me joy. Connection. Grounding. I would hate to be without it. I fantasise about reaching older age and swimming into retirement and beyond. With a group of women who show up with, and for, each other.
I love this! So inspiring. I will be spending a few weeks in Donegal soon, might have to get back into the Atlantic.