My swimsuit clung to my body in a freezing clinch beneath my Dryrobe. My body shivered uncontrollably as I tried – and failed – to put on my hat and pull on socks and gloves.
I couldn’t hold the flask of tea I’d brought with me. I felt my panic rising as my blood pressure dropped (recognised by me feeling lightheaded and confused), my vision blurring as I slipped towards unconsciousness.
‘I’m in trouble,’ I called out weakly, trying to summon help.
Even as I grew delirious, I realised I had hypothermia and knew that if I didn’t get help right now, I could die, next to a freezing Lake District lido with lifeguards oblivious nearby.
I was terrified for my daughter, Maya, and what she would do without me.
The shame came later. Shame that as a respected health professional and experienced cold water swimmer, I had put myself in this situation.
I’ve always loved cold water swimming. As a child I’d dive into Welsh lakes on family holidays, or freezing fjords on trips to see my Swedish pen pal.
Swimming in wild, open water is the antithesis of a noisy, chlorine-filled pool. The water feels amazing – smooth and silky on my skin, I can feel the breeze or sun on the back of my neck, and watch kingfishers swoop in front of me.
The cold adds another dimension. It’s a physiological and psychological challenge – psyching myself up to enter the water, the shock of the cold that makes it hard to breathe until I calm myself and enter an almost meditative state, the payoff of knowing I have the fortitude to face the challenge.
So I feel amazing physically, and I can also take that resilient, confident mindset into other areas of my life.
There’s scientific evidence to show that cold water swimming can alleviate conditions including migraines, pain, arthritis, anxiety and depression – and even reduce dementia risk (according to research by the University of Cambridge). All thanks to its effects on inflammation.
As a dietitian who has worked with thousands of patients, particularly those living with cancer and other health challenges, I will sometimes suggest cold water swimming to those I think may respond to its physical and mental benefits.
Illness and its treatment can be disempowering, and cold water swimming can be a hugely empowering experience.
So how did I end up in A&E, with doctors desperately trying to raise my core temperature so I didn’t succumb to hypothermia and die?
The day it happened, I needed that cold water hit. My work was going through an extremely stressful patch, and I wanted to feel the endorphin rush that comes from swimming in almost freezing temperatures.
When I moved to Cumbria in 2021 I’d explored the lakes and rivers and found a beautiful swimming spot, my ‘happy place’, which I returned to again and again.
I’d also taken the precaution of taking a course with renowned cold water swimming coach Gilly McArthur – and knew never to go wild swimming alone in case I got into difficulties.
But that day in December 2023 was different.
For a quick, seemingly safe swim, I decided to go to my local lido. I was the first one there and the attendants had to break the ice on the water’s surface, which should have been a warning to me, especially as the air temperature was minus 5C.
There’s a common myth in the cold water swimming world that says you can stay immersed for a minute per degree of water temperature: that morning the water temperature was probably around zero, which means I should have spent no more than just a few minutes immersed.
But what your body can withstand depends on your size and how much body fat you have (I’m small with very little body fat), how acclimatised you are, stress and lack of sleep.
I was tired and wired but I entered the lido and swam for 14 minutes – far too long given the freezing temperature.
If I had been in my usual wild-swimming spot, my self-protective instincts would have told me to get out of the water.
But I was in an outdoor pool and the lifeguards were watching me, and I admit, maybe my ego took over.
When I came out, I was already in the first stages of hypothermia – where your body temperature drops below 35C (normal temperature is around 37C): at this point your heart, lungs, muscles and brain cannot function properly, and you shiver uncontrollably and feel cold to the touch.
Dr Mark Harper, an expert on hypothermia, describes other key symptoms as ‘The Umbles’: Grumbles (anger and agitation), Fumbles (dropping things and slow reaction times), Mumbles (stiff jaw and slurring words), and the Stumbles (poor co-ordination and difficulty walking).
When you’ve been cold water swimming, it’s important to raise your temperature as quickly as possible by putting on dry clothes, having a hot drink, and getting into a warm place.
I couldn’t do any of this as I was already disorientated and blacking out. I later found out that my body temperature was 33C – and falling, due to ‘the afterdrop’, which is when the body continues to cool even after you’ve left the cold water.
When the lido staff realised what was happening, they wrapped blankets around me and fed me muffins and hot sugary tea to revive me.
It took 15 minutes for the paramedics to arrive; they cut off my wet swimsuit and tucked hot water bottles around me to warm me up while they waited for the ambulance to arrive.
Even then, they couldn’t move me at first because my heart was unstable – it had gone into arrhythmia, beating erratically, a known effect of hypothermia.
I came to in A&E, wrapped in layers of foil and blankets, to find Maya, 23, and my concerned neighbour waiting.
They could feel that my hands and feet were freezing and wanted to warm them up, but the doctor instantly warned them not to try – doing so can send cold blood back to the heart and cause cardiac arrest. It’s why mountaineers will sacrifice their fingers to frostbite rather than trying to warm their hands in extreme situations.
Overall, I was in hospital for around eight hours, being fed sugary drinks and foods to give my body enough glucose to manufacture the energy it needed for raising my temperature and for recovery.
In my work as a dietitian, I advise against blood sugar spikes, but this wasn’t a situation for careful eating. If I hadn’t been able to swallow, they would have given me a glucose drip.
Finally, I was allowed home, where for the next few days I was able to rest, raid the freezer for nourishing soups and casseroles, and gather my strength.
I took homeopathic remedies, with arnica and aconite, for shock. And I had organic aloe vera juice and probiotics to help my gut, as stress can trigger gastrointestinal inflammation, causing symptoms including pain and fatigue.
Even today, almost two years later, I still have some neuropathy – nerve damage – in my fingers and toes, which means I have a loss of feeling in them.
A week after my near-fatal swim, a good friend, who is also an experienced cold water swimmer, came to visit.
I asked her to take me back to my happy place, the lake I love to swim in. Possibly the medical advice would have been against this, but I didn’t tell any doctor.
I couldn’t give up cold water swimming – it’s helped me get through some incredibly challenging times – but I needed to go with someone I trust.
We stayed in the water for just a minute, then over the weeks I built back my resilience and confidence.
When you have a near-death experience, it changes you for ever. I feel even more responsibility for Maya, and for keeping myself safe for her.
When I go into the cold water now, as I still do most mornings, I definitely think twice. I’m very aware of how I need to allow for the time it will take me to warm up afterwards.
But it’s still well worth doing.
