Bike to the ocean.
Sit down on the bench close to the pier.
Pull out the sarong from my backpack, the sarong that’s always and already there, in case I feel like taking a cold bath – which, I am happy to report, it still qualifies as (my personal limit is below 14 degrees C).
Put away my phone and my glasses, use a scrunchie to gather up my hair in a bun, and walk towards the stairs, down into the water.
Sun is shining.
Hardly any wind.
Step by step, not fast, not slow, just an even pace, I walk down the stairs into the water. Face the sun and start to swim, all the while counting. Upon hitting 300 I turn around and start to swim back to the pier, but when I reach it, I stay in more. Longer. Don’t want to get out. Not yet. Haven’t had enough.
Turn to face the sun again, and with every cell of my body, every fibre of my being, I feel the water slowly lapping against my chest.
Continuing to count, I take another shorter swim, before I finally, upon hitting 800, get out of the water, realizing it’s about time to head on off to my friend for the Q&A I was to moderate an hour later.
14 minutes. Give or take.
15 degrees in the air.
11,5 in the water (I have my sources).
There’s nothing quite like it.