Words by Jessie Smith
It’s an uncharacteristically sunny day in early February, and a few weeks after my 21st birthday. I’m perched atop a crag on Kinsale Beach in County Cork, biting my nails as I try to summon up the courage to test out the water shoes my mother gifted me. An unsubtle attempt to pull me into her obsession with cold water swimming.
I had done the occasional cold dip before – tipsy with friends, or shrieking as my aforementioned mother stood beside me in the water, guiding me through one of her breathing exercises. But this time, I’m alone – blessedly, terrifyingly alone.
A lot of times since moving to Ireland, I’ve felt alone. Sitting on this rock in this small, near-deserted cove, staring out into the challenging Irish sea. I think of other difficult things I’ve had to overcome, other times loneliness has felt intrinsic to my existence. Having struggled with anxiety, depression and disorders that went undiagnosed until I was 17, I have no shortage of those sorts of experiences.
And yet, as I sit and reflect, I realise that without those struggles (and a healthy dose of privilege, too), I wouldn’t be here on this beach, in a beautiful country that I now live in, for heaven’s sake, facing a much more trivial fear.
The thought is enough to propel me off my rock and down the beach. I stick my hands under my armpits, squeeze my eyes shut, and wade stubbornly into the shallows, losing the fight against the urge to yelp when the cold of the water finally hits me. With the cove being slightly inland, the waves are gentle but insistent. I let the water drift over and further up my body with each step I take. If I can ignore the Baltic temperatures and control my breathing, it almost feels like meditation.
At the same time, the cold water is a battle I am conquering. Yet, in the maelstrom of my feelings, a voice persists in time with the heavy beats of my heart: “I’m capable, I’m capable, I’m capable.”
Fast forward ten months or so and I’m back in Brighton for the final year of my degree, living with my best friends and swimming regularly. Life still gets heavy, but is made lighter by remembering those quintessential Irish rules: to surround yourself with community, music, nature and most importantly, the sea.
Yet, I remain conscious of the irony in the parallels between my experience and others’. For many people, the water may not be such a source of solace. The ongoing militarisation of the seas can make the shores of a foreign country a place of real danger, fear and loss for migrants.
Open water is proven to heal. It helped me to slow down, rediscover myself, rebuild my relationship with my body, connect with my mother. Scientifically, cold water stimulates the vagus nerve, which increases your mood. Can we reclaim these benefits for those who need them most?
Reclaim the Sea (@reclaimthesea) is an organisation working to help refugees, migrants and displaced people rebuild their relationships with the water. Their programmes provide participants with swimming and surfing lessons rooted in joy, positivity and an infectious love for the water.
A feature produced by ITV Bristol depicts swimming groups as close-knit and extremely supportive of each other. It’s joyful to see, and proof of the benefits of blue space for everyone, but especially vulnerable communities. Sea healing works.
In a world where most of us are struggling to keep our heads above the waves, it’s all too easy to abandon our need to connect with nature. But, frankly, it’s the most vital thing you can do to nourish your soul and enrich your experience of life. So, get in the water, even if it’s cold, even if you’re scared. Because it’s cold. Because you’re scared.
You’re capable, you’re capable, you’re capable.