There’s a story I like and it’s one my father likes to repeat. The year was 1981 and we took a ferry from Sweden to visit friends in Finland. The Silja ferry logo was a big blue seal’s head. I was a child and I imagined playing like a seal. Exploring the archipelago, frolicking in the waves, immune to the frigid November air. 

Our family was invited to have a sauna. There was a cozy sitting room with plush robes, grilled sausages, homemade bread, and beer for the adults. After the second sauna round (and at least as many beers) A’s father invited my father for a swim. There was a pool in the snowy yard, kept just above freezing. He dove into the water without hesitation. My father, not wanting to appear weak, followed suit. He leapt and for forty years, he has repeated the following words:

“It was as if a thousand needles were stabbing me. And then, euphoria. Pure euphoria.” 

Forty years later, I live in Helsinki and The Secret of Roan Inish is one of my favorite films. In January, the ice advances and retreats upon the heaving sea. The sidewalks transform into sheets of ice and pensioners navigate by Nordic sticks. Ice is everywhere and in every form, a sort of street art. Toddlers skate on flooded ovals in Kaivopuisto and Sinebrychoff parks. Older children sled on slick, snow-bare ice runs. Bundled infants nap in strollers while their mothers do push ups on a gravel-strewn path of ice. People build cairns of beach ice that cast rainbows into a crystal world. Ice is nature’s prism.  

Helsinki is a playful place in a world that is sick of not playing, and tired of being sick. Two more friends have died, and it matters not that it wasn’t Covid; it matters that they are gone. On Christmas Day, I find my partner’s one-way ticket to the US and it matters not that he stayed; it matters that he almost left. The recruiter called and it matters not that I didn’t want that job; it matters that that job did not want me. 

In the backdrop of my micro world, the macro world looms menacingly. All eyes are on Ukraine as the West and Russia face off in a Cold War redux and, I hope, not a WWII revival. Russia is next door to Finland and Denmark is sending a frigate to the Baltic under NATO. Russian naval ships are conducting exercises in the Baltic. The Baltic Sea, a five minute walk from me.

It is a time of a thousand stabbing needles. I want sunshine and stability. I want euphoria. 

I remember my father’s words. “Pure euphoria,” I repeat as I put my bikini on and I stuff toe warmers into my Timberland boots. “Pure euphoria,” I say as I layer yoga pants, Gill sailing bibs, a long-sleeve shirt, a fleece, an old Helly Hansen parka, a wool hat, scarf and gloves. I lace up my Timberlands and I take a sip of water, thirsty from the effort it takes to dress. 

It is -4 Celsius and still dark at 7:20 am. Sunrise: 8:49 am. The glow of a street lamp is reflected in a solid surface of ice. I walk past Kohottava Voima (“Lifting Power” in English), a sculpture of a muscular man lifting a globe. “He’s ripped, like he’s cut from stone,” I laugh. He is frozen in a stance of endless effort and his expression is resolute. I, not wanting to appear weak, keep walking towards the beach.  

I reach Eiranranta and the pier is swaddled in a mass of billowing ice. There is no sauna. There is no changing room. Just a few benches and, to my relief, another swimmer. I lay my towel beside the frozen butt prints of the 6 am shift and I look out to sea. Dawn hints at her arrival with spectral ribbons of pink. Tiny islands call to me like birdsong. I strip down to my bikini and I walk tentatively across the treacherous ice. The metal ladder is sheathed in clumps of ice. I grip the rungs hard to hang on. I exhale and I relax as I lower myself into the water, just like my Finnish friend says I should do. Like childbirth, it hurts less if you don’t fight it. 

The cold water doesn’t hurt at all. It is refreshing. Exhilarating. I feel alive and at peace. I am seal-bonded to the ocean. I realize contentment is something you cultivate. You don’t wait for it to be perfect (or warm). You bloom where you are planted. You harvest joy from what you have. I think of the ubiquitous quiet smiles of the Finns and how serene they look in the cold water. I remember that Finland is the happiest country in the world. You can’t beat happiness. You can’t crush euphoria.

The very next day, I am back at Eiranranta. I let go of the ladder and I actually swim. In the distance, I see the seal logo on the Silja ferry and I think, hello old friend. A fellow swimmer dives in and when he emerges, he says, “it’s like brushing your teeth, you do it every day.” 

Winter swimming is better than brushing your teeth, I think. It is euphoria. Pure euphoria.