Swimming with Strangers

Great Britain, 2019

I fell head over tail in love with wild swimming when I mermaided the River Thames, in November, for a plastic awareness campaign. People appeared randomly and asked if they could join me. Then I received messages through social media inviting me to their swim spots throughout the country. At the UK Cold Water Swimming Championships at Tooting Bec Lido, I arrived on my own, but within minutes I was in a huddle of friends I’d made online. “Stompycole, you made it.” Team_Mermaids_UK said, throwing her arms around me. We blushed and chuckled, as we only knew each other by our Instagram names.

I’ve moved around a lot over the last 15 years and never really felt a part of a community. All of a sudden I’d inadvertently stitched myself into one without realising, and it felt wonderful. “One day, I’d love to cycle around Britain and connect with all these wild swimming communities”I thought. Whilst warming up in the hot tub after my Crisis dip, I learned that the next championships wouldn’t be on in Tooting for another two years.

“I’m gutted. I’ve only just discovered it.” I said to Warden Of Love, who I’d just met moments before.

“Why don’t you come to the Scottish Cold Water Swimming Champs in March then? You can get a lift with me.” As I took the next sip of my warm ribena an adventure egg had cracked in my brain.

“No, don’t worry. I’m going to cycle there.” I said.

My first dip was in Totnes, Devon, with Outdoor Swimming Society founder, Kate Rew and Karre Fuhre. Turning 70 later this year, Karre is in training to swim 70 minutes of butterfly, which inevitably led me to sign up for the 50m ice butterfly for the Scottish champs. I chucked my cycle kit onto my damp body after clambering out of the River Dart, waved them goodbye and cycled off round the coast to meet the TEDS (Team East Devon Swimmers), in Exmouth for my second dip of the day.  

“Lindsey.” A lady with a dog shouted, as I hurled down Marine Drive where the River Exe meets the sea. Swimmy Charlotte had offered to put me up when I posted on the ‘TEDS’ Facebook page. My journey was entirely arranged through social media. I was also able to organise to stay with swimmers, and borrow a towel for each dip so I didn’t have to carry one on my bike.

Not only was I going to embark on a journey of connecting with wonderfully wild people, but I was going to see Britain in a way I’d never explored before. I’d never been to Exmouth. It’s stunning.  You’d never have known it was February, as a gaggle of ten swimmers lined the beach, without a cloud in the sky and ran into the English Channel. I’d never been to Clevedon either. I gasped as I lifted my bike up the steps to see the pier reflected in the still marine lake like a photograph. “It’s like a mirror.” I said to Fins and Goggles. She handed me a swimming cap with an image of the pier before I left as a present.

“I think I’m addicted to swimming with strangers.”  I said to February Outdoor Swimmer cover girl, Gilly McCarthur who I stayed with in the Lake District. “Is that weird?” My heart has never pounded so much in such a short amount of time than whilst dipping to Scotland. Swimming with others who like to do it too is like overdosing on shots of unicorn juice. I was high on adrenalin all day, every day.

The Fabulous Leeds Open Water Swimmers showed me how they warm up after a swim, inviting me to ‘prancercise’ beside the reservoir shore. Dressed in robes, everyone skipped along and swung each other around as someone blasted music from their phone.

I also danced in the Peak District’s River Derwent with ten others as legendary Kimmy Joe, stood in the river playing her native Indian flute and her friend patted his drum.  

My 110 mile cycle from the Lake District to Blyth Beach took so long that I had to jump the North Sea white horses in the dark with the BADASS crew who’d kindly waited in the car park for two hours for me to arrive. A triple dip day over 70 miles made me arrive in the dark another time for the Wild Swimming in the Yorkshire Dales gang. My tardiness also meant that I misplaced my swimsuit.  

 “Well, have you done a skinny dip yet?” Leslie asked. I shook my head. “Well there you go then. I’ll join you.” The rain lashed down as we swam up and down the River Wharfe in the dark. Leslie was looking for something. It was by far my longest dip at 20 minutes.

“Here it is. I’ve finally found it. We’ve got to get a photo of the Urban Mermaid sitting on Yorkshire’s mermaid rock.” Leslie said, as we clambered onto it naked.

I swam with a World Ice Champion and a seal rescuer. I swam with a man in his kilt and with 75 women who donned their swimwear in early March for International Women’s Day. I swam in tranquil lakes in the middle of nowhere and in urban reservoirs beside a power station.  

Every minute I was awake, I was either swimming, cycling or talking and eating cake. I was knackered, but I was having the most wonderful time, I didn’t want it to end.

The final stretch

“Let’s just take it in our time.” I said to Lauren, who I’d met swimming in Windermere and had offered to join me for my last 50 miles to Taymouth Marina. We were faced with a steep hill of never ending tight hairpin turns ahead. ‘I’m sure they’ll let us swim at some point today.” My race was due to start at 1pm. We were nearly there, but I was exhausted. We made the top of the hill at 1302. I didn’t have time to feel dejected for missing my race, I was too busy concentrating not flying over my handle bars as my brakes skidded on the steep icy downhill or being blinded by the flurries of snow hurtling into my eyeballs.

“She’s here.” Someone yelled as we rolled into Taymouth Marina, my heart was still pounding from the treacherous climb and descent. “Do you want to race Lindsey?” Alice Goodridge, who’d organised the event asked. They were also running late and had only just announced my event. I had cycled almost 1000 miles, zig zagging across the country to join more than 20 different swimming communities, many who were there- of course I was going to race. But, I suddenly realised my costume and things were in Lauren’s friend’s car.

“Can anyone lend Lindsey a swimsuit” Alice asked over the mega phone. A lady rushed through the crowd, dangling a damp costume having just finished her race. Gilly passed me her hat and goggles.

Part of cold water swimming is the process of psyching yourself up to get in. I had no time for that, my heat had already been waiting. I threw the soggy costume on, hurried along the pontoon, climbed down the ladder and jumped into the 4.8 degree water.

My eyes watered as I sat down at the end of my lane after my race.  I’d done it. I’d made it here and I’d finished. Apparently, the sitting down bit meant my legs went wobbly. I thought I was just emotional. A safety support wrapped her arm round me and took me to the changing room and layered me with clothes.  

“They’re just making sure you’re ok.” Gilly and Warden of Love said, as I looked at them concerned. One month before I had no idea who they were. They had now become good friends.

What next

The following morning I lay in bed thinking about my wonderful journey. I’d never spent much time in Scotland. It seemed such a shame to go so soon. There was so much more to see. I didn’t have any commitments to get back for, so why not continue chasing the water? 

I waved off my lift back down south and then got that bundle of anxious knots in my stomach. I had no plan. No idea where to go next. What the hell are you doing, Lindsey? Then, my phone pinged. 

‘Linds. We’re in Mallaig in a beautifully cramped little cottage. Always room for one more.’

West it was.

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