Getting into cold water is not something I can do a little at a time. It has to happen all at once – over in a moment, bing bang boom, it’s done, you can open your eyes.

Beforehand, I can sit at the top of the ladder for several minutes, with my back to the sun, feeling happily apprehensive about the prospect of the cold. I can dip my toes in, for a moment, to get a feel for what I’m in for. I can hesitate. That’s fine.

But the decision to get in the water is something that’s usually happened long before I reach the ladder. This can be a strange mix of helpful and frustrating, in that moment when I’m actually about to jump, standing up, bend at the knees, and shove

you’re in for it now, hon.

Once the water is over my head, it’s easy. The brain and the body adjust, and it’s nowhere as bad as I thought that it might be, and this is fine, this is good, fuck it’s cold, reach out and stretch the arms and legs and touch the bottom and stand up straight and shove a mess of wet hair out of the eyes and continue to swear for a couple of minutes and breathe

breathe

and this is alright.

surrounded by the water, there’s a certain weightlessness, a strange resistance, a persistent shift and tug, a cool and gentle force that nudges and shoves and brushes against bare skin and clumsy limbs

let it pick you up and carry you away, like a hurricane wind in slow motion. you can stay here as long as you need.

I have missed this.