A story about the cold clarity of water, and how every wild swim brings me back to myself, no matter how long the days working on the boat have been.
There’s a particular kind of joy that only comes from plunging into cold water — sharp, pure, and alive. It’s the kind that clears the mind in an instant, washing away the noise of everything that came before. For me, swimming in wild waters has become more than a habit; it’s a way of resetting when the long days of building Gwennel stretch thin.
After years of sanding, painting, lifting, and fixing, the work can feel endless. The body aches, the lists never seem to shorten, and the dream of sailing sometimes feels just out of reach. But the moment I step into the water, everything quiets. The chill hits, the breath catches — and suddenly I’m wide awake again. Weightless, held by the water, I remember why we’re doing it.
Even in winter, with the air biting and my woolly hat pulled low, slipping beneath the icy surface is deeply comforting. It’s a reset — body, mind, and spirit. The world above fades, and in that brief plunge, I feel strong, alive, and entirely present.
Sometimes I am joined by curious visitors: seals gliding silently through the creek, reminding me we’re just guests here, sharing the water with wild hearts who call it home year-round.
Wild swimming is a family affair too. Last October, we laughed and squealed while swimming off the rocks in Bergen, braving the freezing fjord together. The water there was different — deep green and still, framed by mountains — but the feeling was the same: that rush of freedom, that spark of joy.
For me, wild swimming is a quiet rebellion against stress, worry, and overthinking. It’s proof that sometimes, the best way to feel whole again is simply to stop, take a deep breath, and jump in.
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