Cold Water Mornings: A Small Argument for the Sea in Winter
Why a swim before sunrise, in water you would rather not enter, may be the most reliable act of clarity available to a working life.
There is a particular kind of morning, in the middle of winter, when the sea is the last place a sensible person would go. That is precisely when you should go.
Cold water is a shortcut. Nothing else I have found in a long working life produces the same immediate, unmistakable arrival in the present moment. The first thirty seconds are a small argument with yourself. The next thirty seconds are the argument being lost. After that, there is only water, and you, and a very quiet head.
I do not swim far. I do not need to. Two hundred metres, out and back, is enough. The point is not exercise. The point is the reset. You come out of the sea and the day begins in a different key.
You do not need a wetsuit, though I wear one. You do not need a beach, though I prefer one. You need a piece of cold water, a towel, and the willingness to be uncomfortable for four minutes in exchange for a clear head for eight hours.
It is the best deal I have ever been offered.
