Swimmingly, thanks.

Blogs seem to be for people who have spare time or are efficient time managers, or both.

I don’t fall into either category. Like most of us, my plate is generally spinning precariously: harried mum/primary carer, employee, daughter, sister, friend, professional procrastinator and committed daily swimmer.

This blog attempt (emphasis on attempt) was prompted by an idea to open a photographic print shop for anyone who loves a) swimming or the sea b) Newcastle, NSW c) flowing mermaidy forms or d) a dash of general salty joy. An idea prompted by a request for a print.

I‘ve no idea how to start a blog so I’ll begin where my day typically starts - in the ocean. 

I swim with the Seahorses, a small group of dedicated swimmers who meet whatever the weather at my local beach. If the sea is behaving, we swim out past the break wall, over the reef and out to sea, out beyond the surfers, then hook south and swim parallel to the beach and up towards The Second Set Of Steps at the end of the beach.

Along the way, we might spy an eagle ray, groper or sandray and try and catch up with a pod of dolphins. In winter, we dive down and listen for the sound of migrating whales. 

We swim about one kilometre before coming into shore for a hot shower and, if one has time, a coffee overlooking the ocean.

When the sea is misbehaving - wave height challenging, ocean energy diabolical, wind astronomical - I head alone to one of two local ocean baths.

This morning, the wave energy was nudging 3000 (compared to a flat and swimmable 200-500) and the wave height was 3 (on a scale of 5) so I chose safety and headed to the Baths after checking that the tide wasn't high (if the tide is peak high tide, these ocean pools can become unswimmable).

Some may question why to leave a warm doona and warm-ish hot water bottle for a winter ocean swim. It’s a very good question. Lately, in the dark depths of pre-dawn winter, I've found it hard to get up despite being a hard-wired morning person.

My secret to getting moving is reminding myself that I'll be skittish, grumpy and guilty for the entire day if I don't get my saltwater hit. And so I rise, pull on my Speedo togs, tracky dacks and top, deck coat and cheap ankle Ugg boots and tiptoe out of the house.

Beneath the poor salute of weak street lights, I walk in darkness toward the roaring sea and ocean pool. Reaching the latter’s edge, the faint thrum of arms slicing through the water accompanies me to the blocks of the 50-metre pool.

There are at least five free lanes and there's absolutely no time to dither - the air temperature is 8 degrees celsius but “feels like two”, and I need to do my laps and get home. I've already put my two swimming caps on in the car, so I stiffly pull off my layers and stuff them into my Speedo bag (anyone sensing a theme here? Hit me up for a sponsorship, Speedo!) with already fumbling fingers and drop my body into the water, feet first. 

I gasp and silently drop a few F-bombs. With one or two swimmers resting nearby, I choose stoicism. I pull down my caps on my forehead and quickly lose count of my laps, choosing not to fear my forgetfulness is early onset dementia that in its full-blown state is eroding the beautiful brain of my Dad. 

My Garmin watch died a few months ago and with bills to face, I've not bought another. To be honest, at the age of 51 with one recent minor health scare, I no longer care about results beyond clear pathology and blood tests. 

The glacial water is cathartic and removes the flotsam and jetsam in my head. Kick, breathe, raise arms, look for the block, repeat. It’s all about moving and sheer survival. I feel slight pain and delicious nerve pleasure and if my heart could sing it just might.

It might just be the most uneventful swim in history, until I spy three men in Budgie Smugglers saunter along the length of the pool, heading to the rock shelf beyond.

Let the record stand that leaping off this rock shelf into the sea is one part bravery, one part timing and one part lunacy. Today, however, it's lunacy on all counts. The sea is a seething mess, waves crashing into each other with rising height.

With a handful of other swimmers, I stop to watch The Leap. There's no disbelief. We’ve all seen it too many times to be dazzled by it. And yet, it still makes me hold my breath. One by one, feet first, in they go to the sea, dropping like flies hit by insect repellant.

I crane my neck to watch the men swim out to sea over the rock reef, their biceps working overtime against the sea wash to get beyond the breakers. Satisfied they are in the clear, we all resume swimming.

I manage 1.5kms before my aching toes get the better of me and I head for the changerooms, where two mermaids I know by sight mumble to each other through chattering teeth. In turn we shower and fumble for clothes, frozen fingers and limbs outwitting us. Many a deep and meaningful conversation has been had in these change-rooms, but today the cold slices through the discourse. 

I am often asked why on earth I swim in winter, let alone without a wetsuit.

Firstly, I do it for all the cold water endorphins that are scientifically proven to bring better mental and physical health. It is easy for converts to become evangelistic about the practice. This is because cold water swimming delivers insane natural highs and is addictive - hours after a swim, I am still abuzz.

In her beautiful book Winter Swimming, Dr Susanna Soberg writes: The shock of the cold water demands full attention from body and mind to survive, because the mind interprets cold-water swimming as a life-threatening situation. The experience is generally described as a kind of positive shock, a moment to reset, in which your brain gets a kick-start of energy and you're ready tio face whatever comes your way. The positive energy is most likely due to an increase of the neurotransmitters dopamine and serotonin. Those control mood and mental balance."

Secondly, cold water swimming numbs all irritations in life because it’s enforced mindfulness. As such, it’s a balm for the ghosts in our minds and the ghastly atrocities that are playing out globally right now, politically and environmentally. I find the cold water ache a bit like getting a tattoo - on the surface, it’s a little tough but the feeling is quickly addictive.

Thirdly, cold water swimming brings a sense of community, which science has also proven keeps us on the planet longer. The older I get, the less patience I have for humans and general fuckwittery, however spending short bursts of time with fellow sea addicts is plain, silly fun that adults need more of.

Lastly, in it's simplest state, braving the freezing water is a little f**k you to the hardest parts of parenting and adulting, when life can feel so bloody vanilla. I mean, if you can toss your body into freezing liquid, you can cope with anything, right?

The ever-changing tides and ocean churn gives me hope when things feel heavy that This Too Shall Pass (apologies to all those who hate pithy sayings, but I personally like this one).

So, if you haven't had a winter swim yet, get on it. Here in Australia, there’s mere weeks left to claim that you’re "a winter swimmer". 

If you can't quite bring yourself to plunge just yet, maybe take a quick look at my print Shop.

You might just find some inspiration for your walls or a gift to a hardy winter swimmer friend who knows, as I do, that you never regret a swim.