Nordic Winter Swimming

I think they are born with ice in their veins.
That seems the most likely scenario.
It’s so cold in the water I lose
All feeling. My feet
Are no longer
There. My
Toes are
Lost

It’s January in Helsinki. There’s a party atmosphere at Allas Sea Pool. Bright lights shine, music blares, saunas slick with sweat. People run along icy paths and dart between the sun loungers, covered with snow 30cm thick. Some are even rolling in it. My friend Leena lowers herself into the pool. She dares me to do the same. I want to be brave. Icicles hang from the metal rungs as I descend. I try to summon everything I’ve learnt, but it’s seconds before I’m out again, bright red, shivering with cold, sprinting to the sauna.

I’ve been following the phenomenon of Nordic winter swimming for some time. Maybe, as a Brit, I was born in the wrong place, with the wrong genes, but I’m drawn and repelled by the cold in equal measure. The more I struggle with it, the more I want to come back. Maybe I’m just not made for this? Maybe I just need more time?

I’m drawn and repelled by the cold in equal measure. The more I struggle with it, the more I want to come back.

Winter swimming – vinterbadning in Danish – is the tradition of swimming outdoors during the winter months, which has become so popular here in the Nordic region that it now feels more like a religion than a pastime. In Copenhagen, where I live, it’s almost impossible to join a swimming club due to long waiting lists. Such is the craze, local newspapers run stories which sort people based on where they swim, like football clubs or star signs. If you swim at my local club, you’re likely to be a hippy or a tree hugger; others lean towards business and social climbing.

But where does this desire to immerse yourself in cold water come from? And of all places, why here? Perhaps it wouldn’t be remarkable to find people in – say – France or Italy who like to go for a quick dip in the Med, but why here, where the harbours freeze, and even further north, where icebergs float across the horizon?

At this point, I want to describe how it feels to immerse your body in cold water on a dark December morning in the depths of a long Scandinavian winter with nothing but a bobble hat. But I can’t find the words. What I get is: blankness, nothingness. Perhaps this nothingness, this blankness of mind, is what makes it so good? For a couple of seconds, the world stops, the noise fades, the mind becomes quiets, the body takes control. It’s physical, not mental. No wonder the words don’t come.

Perhaps this nothingness, this blankness of mind, is what makes it so good? For a couple of seconds, the world stops, the noise fades, the mind becomes quiets, the body takes control.

In Bergen, surrounded by mountains and fjords, I swim with my friend Linn on a dark December afternoon under the stars. As I dance around the dock, stuck in an anxious struggle with myself, Linn tells me to imagine how good it will feel afterwards. Don’t think about getting in. Think about getting out. I’m struck by the subtle admission that, just like me, Linn struggles with the act of immersion, but she still does it regardless. This attitude isn’t unique to Nordic people, but it does seem to be uniquely widespread here. There’s a special word in Finnish – sisu – which roughly translates as resilience, bravery and grit. Perhaps, if you can discover the secrets of sisu, anything – everything – is possible.

There’s a special word in Finnish – sisu – which roughly translates as resilience, bravery and grit. Perhaps, if you can discover the secrets of sisu, anything – everything – is possible.

I wonder if there’s a physiological dimension to this idea of sisu. In her book, Winter Swimming, Danish scientist Susanna Søberg describes how winter swimming helps with the production of brown fat, which, in turn, helps to insulate your core body temperature. This reminds me of a visit to Greenland, where I met a local guide who pointed out a dip in the landscape. ‘That’s where we learned to swim as kids,’ he told me. The dip was a cleft in the rock next to the sea. In Why We Swim, Bonnie Tsui describes an Icelandic fisherman who, following a shipwreck, survived for six hours while swimming at sea, in part because he had three times the amount of subcutaneous fat as an average person to help him stay warm and buoyant. I suppose, if you grow up by the sea, perhaps with a future at sea ahead of you, learning to make peace with the cold is an inescapable part of survival.

But I also want to believe there is more to this phenomenon. As I travel around the Nordics, what I admire above all is the connection with nature, at least compared with my own childhood. Hiking is a normal Norwegian pastime. Exploring the forests, foraging for berries and mushrooms: these are normal activities that don’t require a fanfare.

Hiking is a normal Norwegian pastime. Exploring the forests, foraging for berries and mushrooms: these are normal activities that don’t require a fanfare.

Vinterbadning is perhaps the natural next step, even if you’re an urbanite, because, unlike the UK, Scandinavian cities are coastal. Most of them even have floating saunas and swimming pools, which stay open throughout the winter months.

Rather than brute force and determination, I wonder if this respect for the natural world, cultivated from a young age, is really at the heart of sisu. In the modern world – perhaps now more than ever – we have so much to learn from these people who seek out adventure and understand that joy is often hard won.

Laura Hall is a journalist and travel writer based in Copenhagen. Follow her Scandinavian adventures on Instagram at @laura_hall_swimstagram and keep up with her Modern Scandinavian newsletter on Substack.