Wear the Label On the Outside
When did wild swimming become a thing?
Breaking the waves. Boat Harbour Beach, Boat Harbour, Tasmania. January 2022.
For the better part of 45 years, I’ve been braving the waters of Tasmania, under the tragic misconception that I was swimming. Turns out I’ve been doing something far more profound, something called wild swimming. Which, as best I can tell, is regular swimming but with better PR and (possibly) its own TED Talk.
Untamed. Raw. Borderline feral, even.
What's more, it turns out that I've also been dabbling in cold water swimming. Who knew that flinging yourself into the icy waters of Tasmania wasn't just a way to break up a long run, but an experience? One worthy of hashtags, neoprene gloves, and, presumably, a Gwyneth Paltrow-approved essential oils range to "enhance the detoxifying process."
And here I was, thinking I'd just been going for a swim, like some kind of fucking idiot.
The Tyranny of Labels
When did we all decide that ordinary things needed elaborate names to justify their existence? Can't we just do stuff without pretending we're starring in a GoPro ad?
Running, for example. I do it. It's free. Or so I thought, until I heard about free running. Turns out, that's less about jogging and more about launching yourself off walls like a hyper-caffeinated lizard. My own version, trudging along in second-hand trainers while occasionally dodging dog poo, lacks that cinematic grandeur. Perhaps I should start calling it low-impact forward motion therapy?
You can't just take a walk. It has to be forest bathing or grounding exercises. Step outside barefoot, and suddenly, you're not just in the garden, you're earthing. Less hobby, more metaphysical imperative from your collection of mineralised life coaches, those crystalline arbiters of suburban enlightenment.
Drinking a glass of water has somehow turned into a practice. It's no longer hydration; it's alkaline balance restoration or cellular hydration optimisation. The mere suggestion of imbibing straight from the tap, bypassing the elaborate choreography of purification and its attendant blessing from some cloistered cognoscenti, sends shivers through the wellness intelligentsia.
Water bottles now come with mission statements. Exercise routines have ethos. Even my bloody lunch break could probably qualify as modular caloric integration if I threw in a smoothie and a five-minute gratitude meditation. Lunchtime stroll? Once a simple leg stretch; now, I'm tempted to rebrand them as urban existential meanders. If I add a reusable coffee cup and a playlist called Sounds of Scandinavian Sadness, I could probably monetise it as a mindfulness retreat.
I sleep naked. A perfectly logical practice, economical, low-maintenance and my preferred approach, now ripe for reinvention as textile-free nocturnal recalibration. Imagine the workshops I could run.
Label Inflation: A Modern Epidemic
Why stop there? If life insists on rebranding everything I do, let's push it to its logical and deeply stupid conclusion:
Barefoot sprints on Saturdays? Primal velocity optimisation drills.
Washing the dishes by hand? Manual aquatic surface sanitation rituals.
Eating leftovers straight from the fridge? Cold-chain sustainable grazing.
Sitting in the sun? Solar exposure therapy with a focus on Vitamin D synthesis.
A post-lunch nap? Conscious micro-hibernation for nervous system recalibration.
I suspect we know exactly why we do this. The plain, unvarnished truth of life is often too unremarkable to bear. A dip in a freezing lake doesn't feel wild; it feels fucking cold. So we dress it up. Call it immersion therapy. Pretend it's spiritual instead of masochistic, or maybe a bit stupid. Because god forbid, we're just ordinary people doing ordinary things.
The Wild Truth
The reality, of course, is that we're all just scrabbling around, trying to give our lives texture and meaning. If calling my Saturday sprints earth-bonded velocity drills helps me pretend I'm an elite athlete instead of someone gasping on the grass like a beached seal, then fine. Let me have that delusion.
Because maybe that's what all this rebranding is really about, not wildness, but permission. Permission to turn the ordinary into something extraordinary. Or at least something worthy of a hashtag. While I'd love to claim immunity from it, the truth is I'm already halfway in.
I mean, who wouldn't rather be a cold-water immersion enthusiast than someone who just... forgot to check the tide? Who wouldn't rather be primal than puffed out?
I can’t help but envy the cockatoo ripping up pinecones across the road: chaotic, destructive, and gloriously indifferent to whether it’s engaging in wild foraging or intuitive arboriculture. No hashtags. No TED Talks. Just strobilus carnage and unrepentant joy
Meanwhile, I’ll keep swimming - wildly, coldly, smugly - and if anyone asks, I’ll be busy optimising my manual aquatic hydration rituals. Possibly naked. Probably barefoot. Definitely trendsetting.
If that doesn’t work, I’ll call it natural elemental submersion therapy. Put it on a T-shirt. Monetise the shit out of it.