DICING WITH DEATH?

It’s been four days since we last went, and with each dreary, drizzly day that passes, my motivation weakens. I cannot even remember the last time I saw the ground outside looking dry, so this morning I peer out of the window dubiously, expecting the worst. The sky is overcast and gloomy clouds swirl around the mountain opposite; I can just about make out their outline. Although the ground is slightly humid, there are no new puddles. I tell myself to get a grip. Today’s the day I must get back into the swing of my beloved routine. The more time that elapses, the harder it will get.

So, close your eyes, listen closely and go with the flow. Bear with me as I attempt to let you in on a secret. I hope you won’t be disappointed; I swear, it’s the most amazing thing!

***

By the time my friend, Nicki, and I arrive at the beach, the ambient temperature has already risen by five degrees, bringing it to a grand total of eight (degrees centigrade, that is); about average for 8 a.m. this time of year. It’s the month of March and springtime should hopefully be around the corner. There’s a bitter wind gusting now and again and the ominous blanket of cloud seems almost low enough to touch. Taking a deep breath, I rip off my clothes, bundle them up, cover them and my towel with a plastic bag in case it rains and grab my mask, snorkel and flippers. With no sun, the water looks murky, a little choppy and… well… to be honest, rather uninviting.

However, there’s no going back now. As soon as I’m in, I just know all will be well so I dash to the water’s edge in haste. I hear a shriek from a couple of pedestrians walking along the road above, wrapped up in woolly hats, scarves and gloves, and turn to wave. They give me a thumbs-up of admiration, although from the incredulous expression on their faces, I can tell they believe I am insane.

Taking another massive breath, I wade in, instantly whipping around to put on my flippers. A freezing wave sweeps me up; I spin round, head down deep in the water and, without further ado, promptly strike out, paddling furiously. Nicki, prefers to acclimatise herself more gradually by splashing her body before full immersion, but for me, this is the only way to do it. The sudden shock as the cold engulfs every inch of my body causes me to pant with rapid, gaspy breaths. This, I’ve read, is entirely normal and cannot be overridden, even when one is steeled for it. Apparently, it’s the shutting-down of blood vessels in the skin to insulate the body from the cold. My heart is racing too, thanks to the secretion of adrenaline and noradrenaline into my bloodstream. This results in the release of other beneficial hormones which tell the kidneys to offload water, hence giving me that slightly uncomfortable urge to pee. As hard as this may be for you to believe, all this stress is considered excellent for the body. Mind you, whilst it might be happening inside of me, all I can think of is keeping my head down and swimming with every single ounce of determination I can muster.

Two dozen strokes out from the shore and the visibility begins to clear; the pale, sandy seabed patterned with wavy ripples morphs into view from a murky fog-like haze. After just over a minute of intense swimming, a sensation of wonderful warmth creeps over my body, my breathing slows and I’m able to relax into the strong yet soothing motion of the swell. This feels awesome!

A fleeting glimpse of sparkly silver to my left catches my attention. Minute shimmering flashes twist and turn together as a single unit. It turns out to be a shoal of anchovies; thousands of them! There are so many it takes an age for them to pass. Eventually, I recommence my journey, peering ahead into the gloom as I go.

Eventually, in the opaque dimness ahead, I make out a long murky form. I blink, and my destination: a small rocky reef, is suddenly there, clear as crystal now! How could it have been invisible just a second ago? The sea’s surface is agitated today; choppy wavelets slap and flap around my ears, but they are of no consequence. Eyes down, I let myself drift over the lush, olive green, swaying Posidonia meadows and barnacle-clad rocks.

To and fro…

Up and down…

Back and forth.

It feels very similar to a rollercoaster ride as the scene below alternates from barely visible to almost within reach.

Close…

Far away….

Back to a vivid close-up again.

Lifting my head out of the water for the first time, I glance back at the coast, about sixty metres away, and take a second or two to revel in the glorious sensations coursing through my body. I know the water is cold—around twelve degrees. The wind feels unpleasantly cold on the back of my neck which is not submerged, so I strike out again to swim around the reef’s perimeter to keep warm whilst waiting for Nicki to arrive.

The northern edge of the reef is the usual haunt of the damselfish: a pretty, rust coloured, fork-tailed fish. They remind me of a gang of cool teenaged dudes with nothing better to do than hang around with their pals. They’re not scared of me, not stressed, not in a rush to get anywhere; they remain practically immobile as if suspended in limbo. Way down underneath them, a dozen or so gilthead sea bream poke their heads into rock crevices. Khaki-green bodies, with a hint of lemon under the gills, they are one of my favourite sightings. Unable to resist, I sink down to spy but am immediately spotted. The gang of bully boys cease their investigations and disperse. One loitering individual allows me to follow him for a few seconds before shooting away to rejoin his buddies with a disdainful flick of his tail, leaving me dangling. Again, I must surface to breathe.

A row of shells and pebbles neatly aligned along a narrow ledge on a rock catches my eye. Sure enough, deep inside the crevice, I perceive a sliver of orange tentacle, curled up tight behind them. With another deep breath, I redescend to investigate further. This time, the creature within changes colour to a ghostly white and swells up in indignation to warn me off. Wishing him no harm, I leave the fellow in peace to observe his antics from the surface. After a minute or so, a small octopus (now the same mottled brown as his rocky home) squeezes out from behind his treasures and gropes his way across the seabed, his outline taking on an aspect of speckled beige identical to the grains of sand as he does. Within seconds of reaching a clump of Posidonia, his body miraculously transforms into shades of mottled green identical to the seagrass. The wily master of disguise then melts into the sanctuary of his background and I see him no more. Wow! I feel honoured to have witnessed this expert of perfect camouflage at work.

By now, Nicki has arrived, and we spend the next five minutes or so feeding our hungry aquatic chums with a mixture of stale bread and any other scraps we have salvaged from our kitchens. A little naughty of us to feed them such junk food, you may say, but surely even fish can be allowed a few guilty pleasures now and again.

Feeling the intensity of the sun’s rays on my back along with the glacial freshness of the water on the rest of my body is invigorating, to say the least. I feel a rush of glee and dive down to swim amongst the fork-tails who, as ever, tolerate my intrusion with patience. Funnily enough, it’s when diving down that I notice the temperature is far warmer. Can’t stay long, mind you, but holding my breath whilst taking a few underwater strokes amongst the swirling, hungry fish makes for a fun game. When I finally surface, blowing out a jet of water from the snorkel, I see the sun has pierced a hole in the stony grey, otherwise impenetrable blanket of cloud, sending multitudes of tiny, twinkly diamonds glittering over the surface of the sea. What a spectacular display! Nicki and I giggle and rave awhile about how lucky we are to be out here witnessing this heavenly phenomenon.

At this temperature, it is not a good idea to remain immobile for very long, however, and I soon feel the need to start moving again. As no dip is complete without checking out the baseball boot over near what Nicki and I call ‘Atlantis’, that’s where I head. (We have named the area at the far end of the bay after the lost city, as it is possible to make out distinct strata of carbonate rocks which, over time, have formed uncannily straight parallel lines resembling the ancient walls of a submerged city). I have no idea how long the baseball boot has been there, but I always spot the semi-circled toecap of immaculate, snowy white plastic from afar. The rest of the shoe is encrusted with tufts of weed and barnacles and has taken on the caramel tone of the rocks themselves. Breathing easily via my snorkel and paddling furiously, I’m at my destination before I know it. Goodness! The current is ever so strong today and I realise it will take me far longer to swim back, so do not hang about.

True enough, battling against the current is slow-going and rather a challenge. Taking a moment for a breather, I notice the swell has increased dramatically and the white-capped waves are becoming even choppier than when we first set out. I submerge my head once more and concentrate on making progress. After what seems like an age, I make out pebbles on the sandy seabed, signalling I’m approaching the beach. Glancing up, I spot Nicki bobbing around in a fierce riptide dangerously near the rocky breakwater. She makes signs that she’s going to swim to the next beach along near the port, instead of struggling to get out here.

I see what she means. Each wave lifts and sends me hurtling towards the shore, only to drag me even further backwards out to sea as it ebbs. In the past, I have been subjected to the sea’s turbulent “washing-machine treatment”, which, whilst being exhilarating, is simultaneously slightly scary. Which way is up when it’s like that? Hard to say…

After a few minutes of battling with the crashing waves, I give up and decide to follow her example. In the lee of the wind near the port, the current is weaker and swimming less of an effort. The water at this beach is relatively shallow and the breakers simpler to negotiate. Luckily for us, my husband has spotted our predicament from the shore, gathered up our belongings and brought them over to us. PHEW! His prompt actions have saved us the embarrassment of trudging barefoot—and barely dressed—along the road back to our departure point.

Once safely back on dry land, the first of many amazing zingy feelings wafts upward through my body. This sudden rush of endorphins leaves me with the most incredible sentiment of wellbeing. I tell you, transcendental meditation is not a patch on this. The addictive sensation is one of the greatest thrills and what I love most about cold-water swimming.

On the other hand, my toes and fingertips are now completely numb and I observe a suspicious lack of dexterity in my hands, which makes getting dressed somewhat tricky. However, wearing a simple baggy outfit solves that problem. Plus, the phenomenon is short-lived.

By the time I’m home, had a warm shower and hugged the radiator for twenty minutes, all that remains is one of the most magnificent feelings I’ve ever experienced in my life. I feel so incredibly alive; my mood is positive and bright. I’m set up for the day, ready for anything. Rain or shine, just bring it on… Call me mad if you like, I don’t care. Cold-water sea-swimming is simply the most exhilarating experience I’ve ever known.

Some might call what I do, “dicing with death”. Me, I call it, “luxuriating in life”.