FOREWORD

This original blog was published over a decade ago. I think it was a turning point for many things. It wasnae a look at how gallus I am, ave stopped the booze and acting slightly less radge.

Not ruining weekends with all night sessions or pishing the bed has meant my family flourished, my work changed — it went a wee bit skyward, or in fact the opposite of skyward.

Completing the original post gave me a wee boost of confidence in my writing abilities with the realisation that I can tap out passages on my phone and affect folk — not just clowning about with funny stories. It showed I could take them on a rollercoaster. Granted the ride wasnae very polished and most of the time wasnae that coherent, but the folk that struggled through the missing words, the meandering spines and muddled sentences gave the odd bit of positive feedback. It helped give me the urge to continue writing — not just mumbling about swimming adventures and personal history, but start creating stories. Somehow I managed to tap out two fictional stories, one 60,000 words and one 45,000 words, both on my phone.

Full disclosure, and a big reason for this update — I’ve recently started relying on artificial intelligence to help clean up my writing.

Sorry.

I don’t want a Terminator demise of the world and will sign online petitions to stop installations of mega data centres. In my defence, when I was at university I was diagnosed with dyslexia — honest, it’s not a self-diagnosis cornflake box badge — and kind of explains why most of the time my musings are a mess. I’m also pretty tight-fisted, so I’ve struggled to justify having these written creations corrected and polished by a professional or even someone with a pair of working eyes. So I’ve spent the last few months tarting up the longer stories and have them available for download on Amazon. 2nd story

I don’t use chatbots to create, only to correct. Well, apart from front covers, but that’s another cheap ass stunt. Before you get all death to technology and tell me to stop because it encourages laziness and melts the inside of yer stainbrain — this isnae a, upload the whole script, type in a couple of prompts and voila, pull a complete edited version out of ma sleeve. Ave seemed to have turned it into a long drawn out process. We chat or tap away like pals on WhatsApp. A tell it when it’s talking pish and say thanks and please when dodgin away, beat by beat or a few paragraphs at a time. Back and forth, back and forth until we both agree. One chapter in the second story took two weeks of intensive work before I was happy with the results.

Sorry for meandering. Please enjoy the AI adjusted post.

2025 December Cocksburn Reservoir smashing ice for a dook.Dry for a year 2015

I wasnae much of a social drinker — more a binge party animal. The morning after, sitting on the side of the bed, head in my hands, trying to decide if I needed a sh#t or a haircut, memories of the previous night returning in sporadic flashes. Vowing never to drink again. I always seemed to take mischief and bad behaviour to another level. With drink, I was a LIABILITY. There will be more than a few reading this nodding along, with at least one story in their head where they promised never to drink with me again — when a couple of quiet pints ended in bedlam.

This isnae an apology. Don’t get me wrong — there have been some brilliant times and adventures that wouldnae have happened with the sensible head on. My first twenty years drinking were chaos. It’s easy to blame my sugar intolerance for some of the carnage. The last five sugar-free years had been slightly more subdued — removing syrupy shots and liqueurs, all mixers including lemonade, apple and cranberry juice. Drinking spirits neat made things a wee bit calmer. The killer was being completely sugar-free all week then scooping a bottle of Henry Westons vintage 8.2% apple juice. Like a dog eating beetroot. Clean off my head in zero to 330ml. Then 3 more bottles, just for the jackpot.

The year before giving up, it seemed every time I woke up with a hangover I lay wondering if Clare would allow me to stay in the house, never mind speak to me. It is pretty easy not to drink on a dive vessel in the middle of the ocean — it’s forbidden, it’s not the navy dishing out rum rations. However, years ago it was a wee bit different and the sober me was aware of my lack of self-control — with a good chance of getting my jotters by waking up on the helideck, I refrained. In port was a different story. Crew changes after a long trip always ended in adventures.

Never again. It was the same old immediate reaction, like many other folk, I had repeated this phrase loads of times but this time felt different. My drunken behaviour was too much for Clare, my boys laughed about some of my shenanigans, but I could see they didn’t like it and I was losing their respect.

Things had to change.

Offshore trips always started by pledging better behaviour on my return. Working away from home is rubbish but time for reflection is one of the benefits. Every time I slipped into a bad routine — lack of exercise, excess food or drink, going to bed later than Clare — a crew change happened, allowing time to revisit the good and curtail the bad habits.

Since discovering wild swimming a few months before, I had started taking my new hobby to work. We were in and out of Lerwick in Shetland and I tried to keep these submerged opportunities quiet as I felt the OCM and his superiors in Aberdeen would have frowned on my recreational activity. Although it soon turned into a crew joke after they witnessed me returning to the boat a few times suffering with mild hypothermia and shaking like a jakey.

This crew change was onto a different vessel, sitting offshore near Kristiansund up in Norway. I was a wee bit lucky getting scheduled on the second helicopter flight out in the morning, which gave me time for a wee run and breakfast before jumping off the pier beside the hotel. The water was cold, at the tail end of November as expected from the North Sea 200 odd miles shy of the Arctic Circle. I was still trying to get to grips with the physical changes the body goes through during cold water submersion. I didnae stray far from the ladders. After 10 minutes breaststroking round the hotel, I returned to my bed to warm up.

Kristiansund Norway. Swam round the white building on the rightI was expecting a project brief stepping off the helicopter. My new OCM wanted to know more about my swim than tell me about the job. There are no secrets offshore. My boss stayed in North Berwick and his wife regularly swam off the south beach — he was amused rather than irritated at my antics. A week later we were alongside the CCB yard in the Bergen Fjord, waiting over the weekend for equipment to arrive. On the Sunday I asked my boss if I could shoot off for a wee swim.

“You can go for a run, just don’t run in the yard.”

As close to permission as I was ever going to get. After a wee recce on the ship’s bike I came across a small Norwegian fishing quay.

Fishing quay Bergen FjordThis wee quay was on the opposite side of the headland from where we were tied up. After a 10 minutes swim , I got out. It wasnae enough — I jumped back in for another quick swim.

Crab pots

That was one of the first times I noticed how cold you get after climbing out then getting back in. The temperature drop hit hard. I was shaking, struggling to get my clothes on, wearing a big grin. Surrounded by brightly coloured shacks and houses, it was bliss, rattling about in a euphoric state.

I was becoming addicted to cold water.

Perfect bench for gear. Norwegian fishing Harbour.

A pod of orcas appeared behind the vessel the next morning. I was relieved I hadnae found a swim spot in the same fjord near where we were tied up.

We left port the next day heading down to a Danish port for a mobilisation. The closest town was Munkebo, which had a lake — barely more than half a metre deep in places. It was more sitting than swimming, but it did the job on the day we arrived. It was a lot colder than the Norwegian Sea.

Keterminde Beach. Denmark.

My nightshift finished at midday after starting at midnight. Some folk hate night shift, never getting a full sleep during the day. I prefer it — daylight is better for walking round the helideck in warmer climates, or when in port, going for the odd run or adventure. Every second day I’d take one of the ship’s bikes and cycle the 7km down into Kerteminde, a Baltic seaside town which is hotchin during the summer. I had the beach to myself in December.

Keterminde West Beach Wild Swimming.

I would change on the small wooden pier then wade in for a ten minute skins swim before attempting to cycle back with uncontrollable hands — sometimes it was safer to get off and push. On one occasion I sought refuge sitting under a shop heater when an old lady expressed her concern. I laughed through chattering teeth explaining I’d just come out of the sea. Her face brightened as she began laughing, walking off, shaking her head nearly as much as my own.

Keterminde Wooden Pier Wild Swimming.

The Sunday before returning home, one of my colleagues cycled down to the beach with me. He biked off to explore the Danish town as I stripped off and stoated into the shallow water, about 20 metres straight out until it was deep enough to swim. I’ve never been a confident swimmer and combined with pushing my body’s limits in cold water, I tried to reduce the risks. I swam across the beach making sure the water was never above my head so I could stand up and walk out if required.

Graffiti Keterminde tower.

During those two weeks I picked up a swim cap and goggles — the result of a lame attempt to find a Danish present for Clare. I don’t know if it was lack of imagination or I was conscious of missing swim time, but all I could find was wooden clogs, a Danish flag teatowel or some cheese. I returned empty handed. I did offer Clare the swim equipment. She said I needed travel goggles more than she did.

My colleague returned as I was getting dressed and we went for a beer in a bar-come-restaurant serving Sunday lunch. Much to the amusement of the patrons my uncontrollable hands nearly smashed my glass with the beer bottle, then I attempted to smash the glass against my teeth. During the trip my colleague had shown me pictures of his new wood-fired hot tub — he couldn’t believe I got cold for fun. We finished our drinks, my first beer for nearly three weeks, and returned to the boat.

Wooden Pier Keterminde

A couple of days later I went for my last Danish swim.

Tuesday the 16th of December was cold and grey.

I biked down to the beach in my bright orange offshore deck overalls, too warm for working in but invaluable for my recreational excursions. I’d tried a few times to swim from the small wooden pier to the large concrete jetty at the river mouth, a few hundred metres away, and turned back every time — worried about getting too cold, still trying to figure out my limits. Not today. I mostly breaststroke the distance, slow going but I struggle to front crawl without a wetsuit on.

I pushed on, determined to make it to the concrete jetty. Over 25 minutes in the water, hands doing their own disco dancing by the time I climbed out.

I found a small bar. Half full of old guys playing cards or patting their dogs. A few eyebrows raised as I struggled to ask for a beer.

— You are sick.

— Nnnnnnnnnno, jjjjjjjust bbbbbbeeeeennnnn innnnn thhhhhe sssssssea ffffffor a ssssssccchhwwwwimmmmmm.

— It is your own fault.

He laughed, then translated for the other customers. I enjoyed that beer, holding the glass with two hands trying to avoid spilling any of the contents, because working on a vessel with zero tolerance, having overalls reekin of beer is not a good look. That was my last beer to date. As my hands gradually became controllable I vowed to go home sober.

Airports are just taxi ranks without bags of chips and drunken blokes fighting — you need a beer or a large bloody mary just to round off the spikes of the security queues, stressed folk in a rush. I managed to bypass the Irish bar in Schiphol and refused beer, drinking water on the flights, and managed to navigate Christmas and festivities without a drink.

My closest near miss came with mussels cooked in French cider on a warm summer evening. I was really close to getting a glass of ice and starting on the rest of the case.

Not drinking allows freedom — you don’t have to sober up before jumping in the car to head for a morning swim. The hardest part is social gatherings. I find making small talk really hard. It’s not that I’m not interested or have nothing to say — I just find it easier and less stressful avoiding conversation. Three pints was my Batman mask, allowing me to relax, enabling the talk pish function , allowing me to take centre stage and start acting the clown. These days I’m content being the boring bloke in the corner. Clare has noted that family life is a great deal calmer since removing sugar from my diet — life without cider is even less turbulent and more focused.

Loch Ard, Saturday swim.

One Saturday morning I slipped out of bed early doors and went for a swim. I spent an age in the warm summer water. On my return Clare was a wee bit upset. Our youngest boy disobeyed all instructions given to him the previous night and woke her up as soon as I left. The promised long lie disappeared with a request to play the Xbox. I apologised, glared at the offending son, then gently reminded Clare that we’d been out the previous night and I could still have been lying in bed with a hangover. I could see the pent up frustration release. She shrugged into my arms and agreed. I’ve been given a lot more free passes on Saturday mornings since — just as long as Patrick holds up his end of the bargain and I don’t swim all day.

My continued obsession with swimming has helped keep the motivation to stay clear of dark rum and single malts. It’s been a lot quieter this last year, our family life has become more solid and more enjoyable. That’s reason enough to continue getting cold and wet if it helps to stay dry.

Enjoying life, Ice dook, Cocksburn

EPILOGUE

Ten years ago.

Crikey!

The date is recorded here for posterity — I was never one for counting the days. I never consider taking a drink these days. I can chat with folk obsessed with vanilla notes in a single malt or hints of oak and chocolate in a pinot noir. But there’s no yearning. I’m too obsessed with food and trying to feel the best I can to think about having a wee snifter.

My life has certainly been enriched since that day in the Danish bar, or a year later when I tapped out the ramblings above. My two boys have survived school and matured into a pair of grand men, they both seem happy with their current situation and choices. Clare and me are getting on better than we ever have, happy in each other’s company and our days together are still cherished.

I’m still obsessed with swimming, although instead of big solo adventures I have relaxed a fair bit — I’m content to cycle up to the local reservoir for a quick dip and a mental reset in the winter, or a gentle lap round the edge in the summer

http://www.thewellbeingcircle.co.uk

I’ve taken my watery obsession in another direction by becoming certified to take other folk for a dook, and becoming a board member of a community interest company — The Wellbeing Circle, based in Stirling and Dunblane. We’ve held a number of day retreats with yoga and other holistic therapies including loch dips and recently initiated a GP referral programme using a group of amazing holistic therapists. We engage with folk who are feeling rubbish and want an alternative to big pharma when they experience a wee mental health wobble.

It’s funkin bonkers really.

I never imagined a decade after posting this blog, I would be someone’s medical prescription and we would be going for a wee swim.

New Year’s Dook Strathcarron.Wellbeing Circle Loch Earn Dip

My commitment to spend a large chunk of the day driving into the Trossachs for a wee dook has reduced — but it doesn’t mean I have given up seeking or savouring the feelings of bliss that spending time in the water gives. A few times a week I end up grinning like a mad eejit, buzzing off tits as I razz down from the reservoir on ma bike. It is honestly natural medicine and a big reason I never lasped, with a need to be smash tins of Tennent’s and glasses of rum to relax.

Wellbeing Circle Loch Ard Dip

If that or any of the Wellbeing offerings resonates or fills you with curiosity or excitement, send me or the Wellbeing team a message.

Our skilled team of therapists will encourage you to feel better.