Wild Swimming

In which I describe the holy ground of wild swimming in Scotland.

The day was warmish and breezy. A hike across the Isle of Iona brought my friend Alicia and I to a secret little cove tucked between two tall walls of black rock. Turquoise water rolled gently over alabaster sand.

Pinch me. I must be dreaming.

We headed down to the beach where a nude elderly man was just getting dressed after a swim. Other than him the beach was all solitude and silence. The sun felt warmer down there out of the breeze.

We kicked off our hiking shoes, peeled the socks from our feet, and dipped our toes in the water. It was cold. It was refreshing. It was calling me in.

Strip down naked? Nope. Not doing it. Someone could pop over the ridge at any moment and see me.

Instead I clamored around the edge of the black rock, looking for crabs and interesting little plants and colorful things of the sea. The water lapping and licking the edges of the rock around me was the purest kind of liquid silk. Tantalizing. Seductive.

I mean, I’m a grown woman in a menopausal body. There’s no way I’m doing it. No way I’ll expose the soft curves of my flesh to the world. Maybe there was a time when my lean muscular body wouldn’t have hesitated. But now? Nope. Get behind me Satan.

I rolled up my pant legs and waded in further to satisfy the urge to be more fully in the water. The velvet of the sand was soothing on the underside of my tired hiking feet. The salted water moving up my legs the deeper I went was like kisses all over my skin. It was amazing.

This is almost exactly perfect. Almost.

I waded back toward Alicia, desperately wanting to jump all in but too self conscious to actually do it. Another woman our age and with our shapely features suddenly popped up over the ridge. She walked down to the beach and without hesitation stripped down to her skivvies, left her clothes in the sand and dove in. I looked at Alicia over the rim of my sunglasses. My mouth hung open a little. We both looked out at the woman now floating on her back. We were in awe.

“How is it?” I called out to her.

“Woo-hoo!” She howled. “It’s amazing!”

Just look at her. This water is the love of God, I decided. It’s impossible to dip your toes in and not commit to fully jumping in for a total embrace.

I looked at Alicia. “I’m going in.” Once I said it out loud it became less a thought and more of a commitment. I moved to the rocks and peeled off my clothes. Wading out into the water I felt as naked as the day I came out of my mother’s womb.

I waded up to my thighs and dove in, feeling silly in love with the source of all this marvelousness. The water was chilly and sent a jolt of wakefulness through my entire body. I briefly floated, twisted and swam underwater. The sky above was an impossible shade of blue, such that no painter could ever manage.

Eventually I headed back to the rocks to dry out in the sun. Water dripped off the curves of my body. Curves I somehow came to love in just a short time. Curves I came to admire in a few minutes of presence in pure drenching Divine love. Curves I came to value in the absence of the commentary of the world.

It was empowering, yes. As a woman. To strip down shamelessly and carefree in the presence of God and whomever happened to wander over the ridge. But it was more than that.

It was a holy baptism of sorts. A baptism into a deep embrace of Divine love. I emerged a new woman. A new creation.

I rose from that clear blue liquid feeling an explicit call to embody this refreshing and resuscitating kind of love that our cruel world is so desperate for, a love that our lying world tells us we are not worthy to receive if we don’t tick all their proper boxes.

Two more times I found myself alone on an Iona beach that week and didn’t hesitate to slide in, fully submerging myself in the water. It became a feeling and experience I wanted to cement in the memory of my body and hold on to forever. It became an expression of love I wanted to take back with me across the Atlantic and emit into the world.

All images @2024 Christy Berghoef. Any copying, usage or reproduction requires owner consent.