Wild WATERS
It’s January on Brighton beach. There’s snow on the pebbles and a stiff breeze blowing along the promenade. I unzip my down jacket, step out of my tracksuit bottoms and pull off my baselayer. My chest prickles with goose bumps as I tug on my swimming cap, slip on a pair of neoprene shoes and gloves, snap my goggles across my face and stride towards the sea. The air temperature is hovering around zero. The water is a positively balmy 6ºC.
I feel something akin to an electric shock travelling up my legs as I wade out. I slow my breathing down before sliding my shoulders beneath the waves. My lungs empty immediately, but I push on into a steady breast stroke (it’s too cold for front crawl). I watch a seagull dip and skitter along the surface, briefly forgetting the chill of the water. After
