I only did eight lengths. The water stung at first, it was so cold, but by the time I’d reached the far end of the pool, my body flushed with warmth.
I’m a fair-weather swimmer who dabbles in the cold water variety only when there’s someone to encourage me to live a little – and remind me I’ll feel good for it.
This winter, my mum was that person. One morning earlier in December, she gently knocked on my door to wake me up. We made a pact the night before that we’d give Peterborough Lido a go before it closes for the season.
I’m currently living in my childhood bedroom for part of the week. A room where, growing up, being awake in the middle of the night meant something out of the ordinary: A holiday, Father Christmas or a rare sighting in the garden that my mum felt was spectacular enough to disturb our sleep.
Waking up in the same bedroom 25 years later, a tap on the door in the pitch black reignited some of that childlike excitement.
I’d pulled on anything that felt woollen or fleecy over the top of my swimming costume. We left the house in the dark, clasping flasks of coffee and minutes later I was standing by the pool in my swimming costume and flip flops. The sun had risen on our drive over and there was steam coming off the pool. I realised I hadn’t seen my bare legs in the light of day in months.
I thought about the hiking trip I’d been on in Italy this summer. I’d stuffed the very same swimming things in a tiny backpack. We set off and I was already anticipating how refreshing the water would be after a sweaty three-hour hike through the mountains. The sun was beaming and I was millions of miles away from home, wearing shorts and sun cream. I was with my partner then and it was, on paper, a more impressive trip.
But a mixture of things – an argument over the pace we were walking at, the amount of pit stops we’d made, and then him being overly anxious about me changing into my swimming things and exposing myself in front of other beachgoers – meant the dip was not the invigorating one I’d had in mind.
When I made it into the sea after changing under a towel and his watchful eye, being there, in the water by myself, gifted me a moment of clarity. Everything I could see around me – the mountain views, the open sea, the sound of kids splashing about – told me I should feel free. But I felt tense.
I’ve read enough about losing yourself in a relationship now to know that it’s something that happens slowly. In the end, it’s a series of small decisions that create a bigger shift. I’d focussed on the small choices – ones I thought were taking me in the right direction - and hadn’t noticed the bigger shift. There was a numbness to life then. But something in the water that day cut through.
And then there I was in mid-winter, months after the breakup, at the poolside of Peterborough Lido when the clarity returned. That swim before work, just twenty minutes’ drive away had felt like more of an adventure than the one I’d travelled four hours by plane for. Because I was relaxed enough to truly feel it.
My mum looked ridiculous standing by the poolside in the frost in her swimming costume and woolly hat. So did I.
The level of organisation and admin this breakup has required has meant I’ve fixated on the tangible things I lost – a flat, a companion, a lot of joint stuff.
I gloss over what I’ve gained because I can’t hold it up and see it in the same way. The water has a way of doing that for me. It reminds me of the mental clarity that’s returned after I lost it somewhere along the way.