At Swim, One Dame
Early morning Barton Springs Swim Report, 11/15/2023
Dark sky, full of stars. Mist off the pool. No raccoons. Heron before sunrise, Egyptian goose just afterwards.
I nearly became an official Austinite this morning: I was in a hurry, and had plans to go to the grocery store in my bathing suit, plus the large wool robe I’ve lately taken to wearing après swim. The timing didn’t work out, & instead I went home. I’m always on the lookout for the perfect thing to put on after cold-weather swimming, and have looked online so diligently my Instagram feed is full of lovely and alarming get-ups meant to warm and comfort: vast hoodies with built-in sleep masks, wearable electric blankets, weighted jackets for anxiety. Sometimes the ads feature skinny young people who look as though they’re walking through the park in all of their bedclothes.
The other day I saw something that looked ideal, a stretchy polar fleece onesie. Meant for dogs, it turned out. That’s a new one for me, though I often admire the cut and pattern of drop-waist dress only to discover that it’s meant for a toddler. I procured a large fleecey boiler suit of Norwegian origin, and while it is very cosy, it proved impossible to pull on over damp skin. I swim in a regular bathing suit—the pool is 68F year round—but I want something cosy to cover my carcass.
The colder weather is coming. I cannot wait.
Just letting you know that your story collection Thunderstruck, which I'm belatedly reading, has had me swimming in tears over the past day or so. I have been wearing normal clothes for that après-swim!!
I swim year round in San Francisco Bay, where the average water temp is 54°F and we scoff at wetsuits. When our clubhouse was closed for the 15 months of Covid restrictions—no showers, no saunas—I did a lot of research into après-swim attire. My recommendations: merino wool tank top and leggings (Icebreaker is spendy but worth it), a down-insulated skirt or jumpsuit (check Am*zon), and a 30-year-old fleece-lined swim parka from my masters team era. So chic! (Not.) Some of my fellow hardies opted for something called Dryrobe, which I probably would have sprung for if the shutdown had lasted a minute longer.