Out of his depth and determined to defy stereotypes, one writer discovered his sense of self in a bracing cold dip
Growing up, I learned not to trust water. I was a poor swimmer and splashing in the sea on holiday always had a hard edge to it. The second my toes left the sandy floor I panicked, for fear of being swept away.
Things changed a few years ago at a friend’s birthday weekend in Cornwall. One February morning, a dozen of us took a hungover walk to the beach. It was overcast and blustery, and we had come to skinny-dip. I was buoyed up by the camaraderie and games of the night before, and felt a safety in numbers. People stripped off, actions hastened by the wind, and before I could think, I followed. We ran over sand and pebbles and dived into the oncoming waves. It was a total sensory overload. Salt filled my nose and mouth. I heard shrieks and cursing, and so much laughter. As I emerged there was a surge of adrenaline, and I couldn’t stop giggling. It was scary, but I was also proud, like a child who’s climbed a really big tree. Afterwards my skin tingled and as we shared a flask of tea, I felt singularly happy.
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