Wetsuits are for Wimps

I stopped swimming in unheated pools or in the sea years ago. At some point in my early thirties, something happened in the tummy area that made it impossible to cope with all that cold water sloshing around my belly button.

I’d stand there, willing myself to take the plunge, sucking my stomach in (as if that was going to help) as ice cold water crept slowly towards my midriff . . . . and then I’d bottle out.

All this wimpiness from a woman who swam in mountain streams in the French Alps as a girl; who jumped into lakes and rivers in her mid twenties while on an Outward Bound course in April; who, now in her forties, will fearlessly plunge her hands into freezer compartments and rootle around for ages searching for packets of sausages that she’s sure must be in there somewhere.

This timidity in the face of cold water has become more of a problem over the last few years. As the children have reached an age where beaches, or at least villas with pools have become the number one holiday priority, my reluctance to get wet (and cold) means that I am missing out on a lot of the fun.

It also leaves me with a bit of a dilemma. As a post-feminist I believe that women are equally as good as men at most things and I disdain girly-girls for being a complete waste of space for not wanting to get involved in physical activity. So what do I think I am doing standing at the water’s edge and saying “Ooooh, I’m not going in there. It’s far too cold!” It doesn’t line up very well with my self-image.

This summer in Guernsey, as I looked at those fantastic beaches and all that cold, cold water, one of the friends we were camping with came up with an absolutely fantastic idea. It was like that “Of Course!” moment in Winnie the Pooh when Christopher Robin is trying to work out how to save Piglet from the floods, and Winnie the Pooh comes up with the solution and Christopher Robin looks at him in wide-eyed admiration and thinks “Now why couldn’t I have thought of that . . . .”

“Why don’t we all buy wetsuits?” she said.

What a top idea it was. Up until that moment, wetsuits had been bracketed in my mind with windsurfers and sailing and surfing: things that ultra sporty young things with gorgeous bodies wore. The brackets had expanded slightly the year previously to include little boys who were going to want to go into the water regardless of what the weather was like . . . but I’d never considered myself to be in the market for one.

As the idea slowly sank in however, it started to make perfect sense. Why not take advantage of something that was specifically designed to keep out the cold? It did help of course that a shop on Guernsey called Aladdin’s Cave was selling women’s shortie wetsuits for only £20 each – a very reasonable price.

The very next morning, three forty-something mummies of various shapes and sizes turned up at Aladdin’s Cave and were soon fitted out with natty neoprene numbers in fetching shades of black and Seriously PINK pink, black and blue, and black and grey: the choice of colour being limited by the sizes available.

Wearing a wetsuit is a little like wearing a full-length girdle (I imagine). You do feel as if you are being held in in all the right places, which leads to an unexpected side effect of the whole experience: it gives you confidence. We duly assembled on the beach and found ourselves standing in various sporty poses (wearing a wetsuit seems to do that to you). Fathers were placed at strategic points with cameras and videos and then Cam, Fiona and I (Charlies Angels as we preferred to be called at this point) performed a slow motion run into the waves while various bemused children and onlookers stood and watched.

I think at least one of my fellow Angels had rather imagined that we would stop once we got out to waist height, but instead we plunged on, slicing through the water like dolphins (well, sort of). It was wonderful!

It must be twenty years since I swam in the sea. It was such an exhilarating moment to be actually in that water, feeling the movement of the waves and tasting that salt sea taste. It was so liberating. From the laughter and the squeaks of joy emanating from my fellow Angels, the sense of achievement was shared.

There is a funny moment in a wetsuit when the water first slides down your cleavage and sorts itself out around your bottom but hey, don’t let a little gurgling put you off. Believe me, getting into cold water in a wetsuit is as close to getting into a heated pool as you are ever likely to get – without of course actually getting into one.

I wore my wetsuit that week. I played with the children in the shallows and did everything I felt I needed to do. And the following week, staying at a villa with an unheated pool, I wore it again; and I loved it. As far as I am concerned, my assumptions about who wears a wetsuit and what they do in it have been completely revised. Take it from me – wetsuits are for wimps.