The purpose of this diary is to look squarely at a few simple “Whys?”. 

Why do people swim in cold water? Why do they look so happy after they do it? Why do they swear that it’s really, ultimately, good for you? When we all know it hurts and probably can agree no one likes being cold. So, is this some New Age cult? Or, more likely, an excuse for breaking out brownies and other stodgy foods?

We’ve heard about the benefits. Cold swimmers gain alertness through oxygenation of the blood. Our metabolism improves as energy powers our cell’s biochemical reactions. Endorphins release and activate our parasympathetic nervous system – this helps to stabilise serotonin levels. Memory functions, sleep, sexual behaviour and hunger are all influenced by this. We can decrease stress through ritualised cold exposure as well. While the nervous system adapts more smoothly to everyday anxieties and white blood cell counts increase to boost your immune system. Then there is the factor of lowered inflammation for physical recovery, which lessens feelings of fatigue and muscular ache.

I guess, most of this is condensed into that often cited benefit: ‘it wakes you up’.

So, there’s plenty we can get into over the coming pages. When it comes to the science we’ll try to rely on smarter minds than mine. Think of me more as a test guinea pig, thrust into a pair of swim shorts and dunked at intervals into squeak-inducing waters.

Outside of getting to grips with this sport, we’ll sink into its vagaries and meet folk who’ve redefined our limits in icy water, or at least championed its benefits these past decades. Slowly, we’re going to make this element our conduit back to the outdoors. In these pages, we will dredge-up mythic stories of human endurance. We will delve into our shared ancestry and trace the gnarled roots of our evolution across the millennia. And, if all goes to plan, we might hopefully shed more light on what humans are capable of and why easier paths in life are often more worthless that those that take something out of you.

It’s a simple act, ditching your clothes and steadying your breath, as you inch down into that brutal, icy clench. Every time I do it, I go through the same internal cycle – “Why the hell am I doing this? I feel like I’m on fire. Why didn’t I stay in bed? Aw okay, here we go. Good God. Fuck. Aw, that stings…”

Thoughts break out in erratic patterns. The devil on your shoulder chitters inanely. Then comes the steady revelation – “Wait, I feel... okay? Numb, maybe? Am I alright? Okay, this is less painful. Breathe. Reach out. You’re okay.”

On each entry, a reset occurs. You’re rooted to the moment. You forget everything you carried to the water. Suddenly you’re connected to a part of yourself you don’t usually have access to. At the same time, you can’t shake the suspicion that maybe this is something we’ve done together for a very long time…