ocean dipping in the dark

We recently visited family in the Northern Rivers hinterland. It was good in the usual ways. Except that one morning a few unrelated and incidental things unsettled me, and I lay in bed mulling over them. It wasn’t a great start to the day.

It had been a while since I’d felt that way and I wondered not only what had triggered it, but why I wasn’t able to re-centre as quickly as I normally do. It helped me appreciate how significant my regular morning routine has become, so this post is to record something of the story of how it evolved into the multifaceted practice I now enjoy.

I’ve always been a so-called ‘morning person’. Whether it was being up before anyone else in my residential college during uni days to think and study, or cleaning supermarket floors at ungodly hours to make ends meet when our kids were young, I’ve always felt at home in the morning hours, while most others are sleeping.

We were incredibly fortunate to move into this seaside village across the road from Karen and Graeme, two wonderful human beings who have now become close friends, but back then were welcoming locals who opened doors to other relationships. Graeme, and his neighbour Lawrie were part of what they described as a social club on wheels, a mates-on-tap cycling club. I’d never been on a road bike in my life and the idea of being one of those lycra-clad-middle-aged-men was an unattractive proposition. But when Lawrie lent me his bike when they were away over the summer to ‘try it out’ I decided to give this caper a go. For the next few years early morning cycling became a defining part of my life. 5.45am at the firestation. Every week day. Whoever comes, comes. The metronomic rhythm suited me well, and the relationships catapulted me into the local community.

At the time, our post ride coffees were at the only local cafe that was open before 7am. Sharing the coffee spot was another gaggle of locals, who turned up every morning looking disheveled but weirdly energetic having just had a morning body surf.

I’ve always loved the ocean. Much to Maria’s embarrassment and perplexity, I would jump in the sea whenever I had the opportunity, whether that was near home or the other side of the world, and whenever possible it was a skinny dip because that just seemed the most authentic way to experience the ocean. And so it wasn’t long before I was invited to swim with this welcoming motley crew, the way paved by a couple of others who had a foot in both the cycling and iceberging camps including the afore mentioned Graeme, and a very good bloke called Murray, whose swimming and riding feats continue to raise the bar to stratospheric heights. And so my mornings became split between cycling and body surfing.

I’ve written elsewhere about the many ways that ocean loving crews like this engage the ocean, the one word ‘swim’ just isn’t adequate. The dominant mode for this crew in those days was body surfing (and still is for many). So the coffee talk was about the quality of the waves and stories of the wave riding or ‘bollard dodging’ from the morning, often with peppered with friendly sledging. There was an agreed time to meet, depending on the time of year, and we’d all gather, don our fins and secure our handplanes, negotiate the breakers and sit bobbing out the back waiting to compete for the perfect ride. Or stand in the shallows and catch white water if that was your preferred mode.

This was a community like none other that I’d experienced. Despite the variety of personalities and day jobs, the love of cold salt water and its associated dopamine hit facilitated a joyous connection that was disproportionate to the activity we engaged in. Queen of the positivity was Fi, who with her magisterially competent partner Heddles, had started this daily habit some 15 years earlier.

Then came the pandemic. It ushered two very significant changes in my morning routine. The first happened for everyone … we were prohibited to gather. That meant we all gravitated to times of our choosing, and so our one large gaggle splintered into little gaggles that spread their dipping and body surfing times from pre-dawn through to broad daylight. Secondly, every morning when I woke up, because there were no commitments to be with anyone else, I had the choice of riding my bike or jumping in the ocean. Involuntarily I chose the ocean every morning. A secondary consequence was that when the pandemic restrictions were eased, I could not keep up with the cycling crew, many of whom had spent the COVID years getting fitter and faster on their bikes. When I got dropped on a friendly Friday ride post pandemic, I knew I had to put in hard on the bike if I wanted to stay in the club. But by then my daily swim routine had become more than a social and recreational habit. It had started to become a practice in the way some people talk about spiritual disciplines.

It was also around this time that I developed a kind of ‘anti-bucketlist’ approach to my life, a reaction to the idea that multiplying experiences and competencies was a path to satisfaction. Instead, for me at least, I found it fed insatiability. The positive side, the real reason actually, was being drawn to the increasingly rare art of mastery, the idea of investing hundreds and even thousands of hours, just turning up and being fully present in one activity until you know it inside out, backwards and intimately. The slightest variations become meaningful. Every sense gets engaged in pursuit of ‘deep’ rather than ‘broad’. It requires my whole being, not just my mind and body.

I realised that the choice to do a few things well, really well, meant making peace with saying no to other things I also really wanted to do. And so I decided not to ride, in favour of turning up to the same beach, at the same time, everyday, rain, hail or shine. Even within my swimming pursuits, it meant choosing consciously not to pursue distance ocean swimming, which was becoming more popular among our crew, largely inspired by the amazing Kirsty whose natural enthusiasm and encouragement had many of us doing swims unimaginable outside our friendship with her.

(Of course, mastery is generally applied to a competency, which I have also sought to pursue, but it has some applicability in these musings about swimming.)

Back to the post-pandemic iceberger experience. I found myself in a small group of regular icebergers who had gravitated, for different reasons, to the earlier time. It turns out to be a pretty intimate thing, swimming in the early morning with a consistent group of people and then sharing coffee. The shared cold water dip, the laughter and collective dopamine hit merges into sharing life in all its joys and challenges over coffee. By then we had moved to Coffetti, a cafe with a small, high, outdoor table. We would pull up stools and crowd around making love to - no, not ‘to our tonic and gin’ - but our respective coffees. I suspect the closeness of our huddle, our proximity to each other, as we naturally sought warmth after being in the cold ocean, helped with the growing connectedness between us.

Along with others already mentioned above, in that early crew was (as is) Nik. Nik and I share a mode of mindfulness, a connection over not just the activity, but some of the inner world reflections and the multi-sensual experience of being in and near the ocean. I often look across the Coffetti table and catch Nik’s eye, and at least for me there is shared ‘knowing’ of what’s going on amongst us. Nik also took the above pic.

There are many others whose friendship has been formative. Like my mate Charlie, who’s moral compass and outdoors adventurousness have drawn us together. The icebergers are a ‘broad church’. There is no judgement. People participate as frequently or irregularly as they wish, however they wish. In fact many in the community don’t even swim anymore! There are no rules. And I love that.

In all this variety, Steph and I found ourselves at the ocean together around the same time. Everyday. The consistency and predictability cultivated a unique bond, that has become integrated into my mornings. The ease of these friendships, and the experience of them everyday has become a bedrock for me.

I think about the way we inspire each other in different ways. Everyone makes a substantial contribution into the lives of others. Steph happens to be the most energetically active person I’ve ever met. I’ll never be able to keep up with her, but seeing her run the streets every morning before swimming got me thinking …

About two and a half years ago, I made a commitment not to drive to my morning swim. I would either run or ride. I’ve kept that commitment going and it in turn, catapulted me to a new level of morning practice.

I had always stretched and done some floor exercise before swimming. But being outdoors in the streets in the pre-dawn serenity, facilitated a different level of attentiveness. I started noticing which birds were in which trees. I came to know which houses had early risers, and wondered where they went to work. I got to know the cracks and bumps in the roads and footpaths. I became more aware of the trajectory and rhythms of the moon.

And then I started to add some - I’ll call it meditation, but that’s generous - to my morning routine. So now it goes something like this:

I wake between 10 and 30 minutes before I get up. Everyday. I can’t wait to get out of bed. Always. The first thing I do, before I turn on any internal lights, is go to the window and gaze at the sky. What’s going on? Stars? Clouds? Before I get to the window I see the shadow of our palm tree on the wall, cast by the street light, and gauge the strength of the breeze by its movement.

I lie on my back on the floor and think through a series of questions and affirmations, the same every morning. I ponder their applicability to the day’s activity. This also opens my body and I then stretch and exercise lightly to loosen my muscles.

Downstairs I prepare my backpack with the gear I need and set out, mostly running, sometimes riding, and occasionally walking. By the time I get to the beach I’ve already immersed my body in the morning conditions. And … I learned this from Steph … its warmed up, and ready for a refreshing dip.

There is a beautiful familiarity among the early shift. We know just how much to say, and when to be quiet. Like most groups, we’ve developed habits, or even rituals of how we dip and how we arrange ourselves in the darkness to stay safe. It fills my soul.

The energy at coffee changes depending on who turns up, but it’s always real. It’s the stuff of life in a small community. And the day evolves into our diverse routines … until tomorrow. When we do it again.

This practice is more than a regular routine for me. It is grounding. It is bodyful and often mindful. Every morning, one of my questions and affirmations is about thankfulness. And this stuff I’ve just written about - good grief, I’m thankful.