It's All Going Swimmingly?

          It was around this time last year that I capsized my kayak in deep, fast-flowing water. The boat has remained on dry land ever since. But “never say never”, as the saying goes: I may yet haul it out of the garage and renew my acquaintance with the perils of seafaring, before eventually resorting to eBay to recoup my investment. Especially considering my latest aquatic challenge.

          We live on the water’s edge, overlooking a small cove that has a boatyard on one side and a public slipway on the other. In between them is a small stretch known as Commando Beach, its upper reach unattractively composed of disintegrating concrete slabs. Both its name and appearance are legacies of its former service as a military asset. Now, it serves as a launching spot for all manner of recreational craft. And the current heatwave has highlighted the fact that people are attracted to the nearest stretch of water for all sorts of other activities. These last few days, I have watched in awe as resourceful locals squeeze their families, dogs, deckchairs, paddle-boards and BBQ equipment on to the tiny beach at low tide and gradually retreat to the tarmac apron as it rises, from where they continue to lap up the sun and make noisy, splashy forays into the cooling sea. Emboldened by the sight of all this joyful frolicking, I felt the beginnings of a resolution stir within me. I was about to gird my loins for a dip in the briny.

          But there was a mental hurdle to overcome. Last year, after years of not swimming, I dipped into the sea a couple of times and, on each occasion, emerged swiftly, gasping for breath and feeling anything but joyful. I didn’t bother again. Instead, I concluded that just because other people appear to enjoy something, doesn’t mean it’s my cup of tea. Besides, I thought, I know how to swim and have probably had my fill. Didn’t I spend a good deal of my early teens on the beaches of the Mediterranean? Been there, done that. And so, I hung up my trunks. But the shame of capitulation has gnawed at my consciousness and the door to boldness, which had remained ajar, was pushed open after some encouragement by a friend and neighbour – an habitual sea-swimmer – who assured me that the temperature of the water is currently ideal. That afternoon, I donned my once-fashionable swimwear and eased myself into what felt like glacial meltwater for another go at healthy aquatic exercise (I had recently seen Wim Hof’s TV show).

          I know that the trick is to acclimatise gradually to the temperature, which is what I attempted to do. But, as I swam out of my depth, my breathing did not keep pace with my progress. It became shorter, whether because of the cold or a lack of lung-power made no difference: I began to doubt my ability and, before long, doubt turned to worry, then worry turned to mild panic. Now, the remedy for panic is controlled breathing but, since I was finding that difficult, the panic-loop intensified. I tried turning onto my back to float and relax but gave up on that before I could make it work. I decided then to make a desperate dash back to the slipway, using what was left of my physical and mental resources. As I toiled interminably, my breathing turned to noisy gasping and my mind turned to the sad irony of drowning within yards of home, while my OH was away for a couple of days and would return to find me gone!

          The episode was frightening but also instructive. Yes, I can swim but, having not done so for a while, I no longer have the muscles or lungs for it. The remedy is to swim more frequently, which is what I have since resolved to do, hoping that I might even come to enjoy it one day. Meanwhile, it feels good to be alive and, as I went to get my bike from the garage this morning, I was eyeing up the kayak.