Liepnitzsee

Berlin is a long way from the sea, and is locked by a landscape as yet unfamiliar to me. But Berlin does have lakes, huge, beautiful lakes with sandy borders and surrounded by woods. These will be easy to fall in love with.

It was to one of these lakes that we travelled, sweating on station platforms for connecting trains and thinking of the waters that waited. The heat seemed an aberration, 28° in April, and so, while our skin was warm the waters wouldn’t be, frozen as they were two months ago.

The train was half full and it was easy to spot who else was lake bound, dressed for holidays, beer bottles clinked in bags and pink noses were evidence of the surprise sun. We tumbled out of the carriage a sticky mass but everyone except us headed for the first lake at Wandlitzsee, seen from the station as a hint of blue through trees. We walked on, scuffing feet on dusty pavements and swinging towel bags and shooting the breeze until we reached the woods, where we wove a path through tall trees to our lake. Despite the walk, we were far from the only people there – toddlers with straw hats and bare bottoms were dipping their feet at the shore and young sunbathers in print bikinis basked alongside others, older, who hadn’t bothered with swimsuits. We found a spot for our towels and stared out as the waters gently rippled. Occasionally a splash and a shriek reached us as the more adventurous plunged in and teenagers proved their masculinity with a few jerky strokes out. It did look cold, if water can do so, but I couldn’t wait any longer, and so fumbled unnecessarily to put my bikini on under clothes, and went beyond the sandy shore and into the lake. The water was so clear I was in to my thighs and could see reeds weave at my toes, and as I swam, my arms and legs working towards an island before me, the chill of the waters bore an echo of the glacier from which this lake came. I am eye level with the waterline and I am submerged in history. A mystery fish brushed my calf as I swam out beyond where anyone else had dared that day, and I felt the familiar rush of excitement and disgust as the unknown of the lake collided with me. I swam back towards the shore, I didn’t make it to the island that day but there will be other times.

Lake swimming isn’t the same as sea swimming. Lake waters have a border that isn’t apparent at the ocean, and there isn’t that possibility of swimming out and never turning back. You don’t play chicken with waves at the edge of a lake, and you aren’t lifted on a temporary throne of swollen surf, but there are more corners to explore, to doggy paddle through reeds and see the roots of old trees dip into fresh water, and there are so many lakes to see and walk to and to swim. Sea swimming is my first love, reared as I was in the briny waters of Porthcawl rock pools, I was born clutching a seashell to my ear, but I am from the land of llyns and I have time to learn that this second love of lakes can be just as sweet.

Falmouth

An eight hour bank holiday drive to the sea should be rewarded with a swim. We drove to Falmouth, traveling so slow as to be overtaken by bumblebees and arrived with our bodies cast as car seats, but we got to see our friend and we got to see the sea. We walked to the Harbour and gazed at waters that by rights were too cold to contemplate, and we contemplated. Stared at the waves and bit our lips and wondered if we dared. We didn’t dare that night. We were in Cornwall and so we drank Doombar, ate fried fish and gherkins wrapped in paper bags and walked home. Away from the sea’s inky whispers and up steep terraces, spooking cats by saying hello, to nightcap on homemade grappa and sleep to the pops of an open fire. Tomorrow was for swimming.

Next day, we didn’t get to the beach ‘til evening, and any warmth from the day had long since ebbed. But the sea had caught the sunshine and was holding it to glow opal, it lapped at our feet as we dipped with nude legs and sweaters. We watched dogs wander the beach, surreptitiously pissing on bags, and we stirred the sand with our toes. To go further, towards horizon seemed madness, and so we hesitated, stared at each other and walked as far as our clothes allowed, withdrew, then hitched skirts higher went in again and wondered. But it was irresistible, and so we undressed quickly, before we could change our minds, and jogged to the shoreline, winter skin prickling at April’s shadows and dashed in, gasping, hurting and exhilarating, braving each shocking splash, swam out beyond our depth with burning muscles and shrieks. We ducked and kicked and remembered weightlessness. The water was perfect. And when we swam back towards shore we came out superheroes.