A Swim at the Ladies' Pond

When I climb down the ladder into the Ladies' Pond, the fetus inside me assumes its eponymous position: curled tight against the water's chill.

It's stopped raining, but the wind is picking up. August seems to have taken a bite of autumn—rain pattering on skylights, chilly breezes at night. But still, seven of us have met this morning—strangers, all—to swim in these storied waters.

The waters themselves are murky, permitting only an inch or two of clarity. Ducks nest just outside the ropes, Egyptian geese strut the deck, and a heron squats as though inanimate in a darker corner of the pool.

Swimming here is a tradition at least 98 years old—the Kenwood Ladies' Pond has been open to the public since 1926, but swimmers have appeared in paintings of Hampstead Heath from more than 200 years ago.

There's a men's pond and a mixed pond as well, but the Ladies' Pond feels special, with its fence and gate warning out men far up the trail from the secluded waters: this is a reserved space. It attracts swimmers the year round; there are mini documentaries from both 1931 and 2016 of the "winter nymphs” who swim even in the coldest months.

This is August, still. It's not so cold, really. The ladies of my group are fast in their migrating water-tread circle. I think they must be real swimmers—that, or baby is compressig my lungs a lot. I'm out of breath while they chat jobs, graduate work, places of origin.

They're teachers, nurses, students: shift workers, defining their own hours, or off for the summer: free to swim on a Thursday morning. The they're younger than me, but not in a way that matters much.

When I pause to rest at one of the tethered floating rings, the other women check to make sure I'm not feeling left out. I'm content, doing physical therapy exercises with my legs while I float. When one of the women gets too cold after a while and climbs out, another goes to join her so that she won't be left sitting alone.

After nearly an hour of treading in the deep, chill water, my shoulders are sore but my body is warm. I'm content to emerge at the exit ladders on the dock.

At the changing area, there are cold showers, and a sink with a hot water tap and buckets available. I pour the hot water over my skin, onsen style, dry off and dress in that familiar way of ladies' locker rooms: polite but unselfconscious.

The sun is out, and we meet at the bench in the meadow: shifting to make room for one another, sharing the day. We go out for coffee to warm up, to keep chatting. After, on our varied paths around the Heath, we walk each other home.

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