Wild

Ten days ago or so, probably when February was pretending to be May, I was chatting to a friend, B, about how much I enjoy outdoor swimming and how rarely I do it. She invited me to come along next time she went out with a group of people who swim every Sunday in the Thames in Oxford.

Today.

Yesterday I told her I would come but warned her that I was so cold even indoors that I was very unlikely to swim. This afternoon my weather app told me it was about 8°, definitely not swimming weather. But I took my swimming things wrapped up in a thermal vest, just in case, as you do when an adventure is in the offing.

As we left the car park, it started to rain. And, well, water from above or below, it doesn't make much difference. So since I was there, I got changed. I put my toes into the water. It didn't feel much colder or wetter than the air. I stepped forward. Calves. Another step. Knees, waist, shoulders... swimming.

Four minutes was enough. My hands were so cold I could barely pull my towel out of my bag. The rain was stinging my bare legs. Rain? Stinging that much? No. Hail. 

My towel was as wet as I was so gave up on it and tried to find the garments that were big enough for my numb fingers to hold. Inside out? Who cares? Back to front? So? It was now sleeting. Once I'd got the basics on I realised I'd left the thermal vest at the bottom of the bag. It was a struggle to pull on my two pairs of socks and almost impossible to put on my trainers.

Walking back to the car my feet were so cold they felt swollen. B had been in the water longer than I had and couldn't even feel hers. The car temperature gauge said the outside temperature was 2°. We shivered, drank hot tea, and once B's feet were thawed enough to drive, came home.

Not sure I'll be going next week.