HIDDEN DIPS
Wild swimming has always appealed to me, just so long as I didn’t have to enter any water. Well, specifically, cold water. It’s because of Raynaud’s Phenomenon, or as my dad’s Hull accent called it, ‘bad saircyulairtion’. More than a minute immersed in anything except a bath, and my hands and feet (as did his) risk turning white, immobile and painful.
While touring, I’ve enjoyed the odd summer-warmed German lake, or the frisson of hot springs in Iceland and New Zealand. But the idea of shivering under a Yorkshire waterfall in March never appealed. Nor did the prospect of the helicopter ride afterwards. Air ambulances are busy enough already. I’ve not so much been Man From Atlantis as Man From Londis.
Until I got a wetsuit. To my astonishment and delight, even frigid local lakes felt warm and inviting thanks to my Zone3 kit (wetsuit, gloves, socks, hat and all), in miracle sci-fi fabrics. Instantly, cold-blooded landlubber became thermally self-sufficient seal. Over twenty years since helped launch the wild swim boom, I could at last put a toe in the water myself.
