The search for contentment and inner peace is an age old quest for humanity, and yet for each individual it is a new journey of self discovery. Last year I began to question (amongst other things) why swimming in the sea had become such an important part of my life. I knew I enjoyed the physical exertion of swimming, but there was more to it than just exercise. When a friend gave me a beautiful little book by a wild swimmer, Lynne Roper, the first few lines I read made my heart leap it struck such a chord with the feelings I have when I swim.

“It’s a spiritual experience, sliding through wild water. Worries dissolve, my mind is liberated; thoughts flow and glide and play like dolphins. My soul swims wild” Wild Woman Swimming.

I swim for mindfulness, to take time in my day for an experience that clears my mind, refreshes my body and calms my soul. To be immersed in the sea that surrounds my home, to feel it, smell it, watch it and all the plants and creatures that live in it. The tiny yellow periwinkle, the brown shore crabs, jellyfish, spiral worms, shannys, squat lobsters and sea spiders to name but a few. To inhale droplets of salty spray, to feel the delicious icy cold on my skin, to sense the freedom, the solitude. When I swim there are no aching joints or physical restrictions of age or weight. Just weightlessness, movement and mindfulness. There was a time when I was afraid of the sea. Wary of the creatures that lurk beneath. Afraid of the waves, the tides and the cold. Unable to put my face in the water. Such a long way I have come as I now spend most of my swims submerged below the surface imagining I am a seal or a diving shag. The sea is now my companion, my challenger. It influences my soul with it’s power, it’s gentleness, it’s energy and it’s calm. I am no longer afraid of the sea but still wary of this powerful force. I don’t underestimate it or trust it wholeheartedly but I better understand it….we have a relationship.

The storm has passed and today the sky is clear blue and bright sunshine. The unseasonal warm spring that we felt in February has gone and a chill wind has returned, bitting at the finger tips. The sea is a mesmerising turquoise, such a stunning blue/green colour that words to truly describe it elude me. The beach at quay is strewn with bladder wrack, sea lettuce, oyster theif and thick, brown leathery straps of kelp. As I swim front crawl out of the bay towards the first blue buoy, there is hardly a wave and no swell. Cascades of silver bubbles flow out from my hands as they pull through the water. I dive to the seabed, legs kicking, arms pulling, down into the blue to touch the grainy sand. Then, lungs bursting, I glide up towards the light. As I reach up, the light is ethereal, pale pale blue and silver and the sunlight radiates through the water to meet me. I dive and tumbleturn simply playing in the water, enjoying the freedom of movement. Hundreds of tiny silver bubbles pop and tickle my skin and dazzel my vision. Then the swim back towards the shore, a wonderful rhythm of stroke and pull and breath that becomes almost hypnotic.

South-westerly wind, with gusts up to 70 miles per hour. The wind, although not cold, is strong and it is a challenge to walk against it. Any hedge or rock is a momentary blessing of shelter from it’s constant barrage of noise and strength. The sunshine fleets bright and dim as the pale grey clouds scud along at great speed. As I walk along the coast at the base of Samson Hill, past the boat yard, the wind howls through the trees and clatters and clangs the halyards in the boat rigging. Small white topped waves are flurried and scurried up the channel between Bryher and Tresco. A large group of oystercatchers take shelter on a small rocky beach, peep peeping in the sun. All of a sudden, as if caught on a gust of wind, they rise in unison and fly out to sea. Swooping and skimming over the turbulant greeny grey water, little flashes of black, white and orange. My towel smacks around my bare legs and I cling tightly to it to prevent it blowing away completely. I reach Rushy Bay, the smell of salt and seaweed so strong I can taste it. This perfect little beach of golden sand, banked by rushy, green dunes, is taking the full force of Storm Freya as she pounds the western side of our tiny island. I find it a battle to reach the beach, down the narrow sandy path. The sand stings my skin like a thousand pricking needles and blasts my eyes. The beach has a luna-like landscape, sand blown so hard, little dunes and drifts are created behind anything strong enough to withstand the wind. The icy green sea rolls in with a roaring force, frothy white foam runs onto the pale sand. The uninhabited islands of Samson, White island and the Western rocks are barely visable in the sea spray and glinting sun. Further around to the west, the towering granite rocks of Castle Bryher, Illiswilgig and Maidenbower are almost submerged in ferocious, crashing seas. As I scamper down through the swirling sand, I am faced with the awesome sight of the sea raging, I hold my breath as I edge myself in. The waves hit my goosebump covered skin but I don’t feel the cold, my adrenaline is running. I sink down into the waves and immediatly they sweep me up into a surge of glassy blue water and creamy froth, racing me back to the beach. I feel the sand grind onto my knees and tops of my feet like abrasive sandpaper as I try to find my footing again. I breaststroke back out into the deeper water and again I’m sucked back up into the wave. I whoop, shriek and giggle, the overwhelming sense of exhilaration fills my body and I am drunk and giddy on it. Back and forth I am pushed this way and that, a large wave crashes over my head filling my nostrils and mouth with cold saline. For a moment my whole world is a whirling wash of blue and silver. I go with the wave and am spat out into the sandy shallows. I leave the sea to rage behind me feeling totally invigorated.

To begin to write is as to begin to wild swim. It starts with a faint pen to paper, a tentative delve into ones mind, a nervous dipping of the toes into the cold wild waters. You quietly explore books, groups, companions to support you….as a float would aid your buoyancy. Slowly you edge out into deeper water, acutely aware of mysterious shapes around you. You write a little more, you swim a little more. Confidence begins to grow, you challenge yourself and soon you are writing everyday, swimming everyday. Plunging headfirst into the sea and submerging your entire being into the wild water and the words. My wild swimming and my writing have gone hand in hand for a while now, both of them giving me an incredible sense of mindfulness and wellbeing. I hope you enjoy reading about the wild waters I love to swim in on Bryher. I have lived at Hillside Farm on Bryher (the smallest inhabited island on Scilly) for nearly four years but only ventured into the sea two years ago when I was persuaded to take part in a sprint triathlon. Until this point a fear of dark masses of suspicious seaweed and a dislike of the cold had prevented me from going any further into the sea than my knees. Indeed it still didn’t work it’s magic on me for a little while after that, I’m not sure exactly when the penny dropped but at some point I realised that this wonderful ocean that surrounds my island home was a magical place, a beautiful watery world and I was hooked. In this journal I hope to record a year of wild swimming on Bryher, starting from today. It has been a busy day on the farm, mucking out pigs, chickens, weaning piglets and sorting out the 200 news hens that have arrived to join our current flock. My swim is a refreshing escape from the pungent stench of pig and chicken poo (living the farming dream!). The strong gusty wind is blowing in from the West and threatens to bring a storm. Cordyline leaves rattle and the cone shaped yellow speers of the aeonium flowers stand in bright contrast to the darkening grey sky. A rich coloured pheasant trots along the sandy track in front of me, tall and aloof. As I reach the small beach at the quay, my bare feet sink into the soft, wet sand. I prefer to swim in a swimming costume rather than a wetsuit and the wind whips around my body as I reach the tideline. The sea is an alluring green despite the grey skies above. As I dive down, the coolness envelopes my body and my skin tingles. I can see piles of squiggly worm casts, discarded limpet shells and yellow periwinkle shells on the pale sand beneath me. I swim out past the end of the quay and without it’s shelter the sea becomes lively, rolling waves lift me up and down and the spray from the wind hits my face. Below the surface, as I dive down to the seabed, the sound of the wind fades and the stillness of that underwater world calms the soul. As I swim back to shallow water I drift, face down, allowing myself to be pushed this way and that by the tide. A large piece of emerald green sea lettuce drifts with me and wraps itself around my hand like tissue paper. A jewel-like string of bladder wrack pearls, in hues of brown and yellow, studded with tiny white spiral worms waves up from the seabed rock it grows from.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton