The Wild Swimmers – Part 2: First Frost

The first frost came in November.

The grass on the shore glittered white. Ice fringed the reeds. The lake lay smoking in the dawn, steam rising off the black water in slow curls, the fells above it dusted with new snow. The morning was absolutely silent.

Only two of the swimmers had turned up: Holly and Imani. The others had texted, Too cold, you mad women.

"Shall we?" said Imani.

"Course."

They ran in together, screaming, and swam out among the steam. The water was so cold it felt like fire. They floated side by side for a minute on their backs, looking up at the rose-grey sky, breathing hard. A swan glided past. The world was very still.

"I used to be afraid of this," said Holly.

"Of what?"

"Feeling anything."

"And now?"

"Now I'd like to feel everything. Especially this."

Imani rolled over, treading water. Her eyes were bright. "Race you back."

They raced, laughing, and collapsed on the shingle, towelled and steaming. Imani produced the thermos. They sat on the cold bench in their coats and woolly hats, sipping hot ginger tea, shoulders pressed together.

"Can I ask you something?" said Holly.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you, Imani? I'd quite like to be warm."

Imani laughed, a rich, delighted peal. "Yes. And if you say stop, you must swim the length of the lake in January."

"That's an awful punishment."

"You'd love it."

Holly kissed her, tea-warm, her cold hand rising to Imani's cheek. Imani kissed her back, slow and certain, her arm sliding round Holly's shoulders. The sun rose over the fells, flooding the frosty shore with pink and gold.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Imani.

"Green," said Holly. "Very green."

The swimming group has twenty-three members now. Two of them always go in first, screaming. Nobody asks them to stop.

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