Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Have I overheated? Is my brain steamed? No. It’s okay. A little longer. In… out.
I swing upwards suddenly, the pressure pumping in my head. I stagger to the door, push it open, and stand outside; rain falls gently on my bare torso. My feet are tingling.
It’s Boxing Day. I am at Luna Hut, on Eastbourne seafront: one of these beach-side saunas, where you can take a cold plunge in the sea before gently sizzling yourself like a turkey in the oven.
I’ve booked for an hour, hopping in and out of cold showers, metal tubs, and the bracing throes of the English Channel. The salty air blows me back into the sauna, lounging in extremes: a cycle of discomfort and relief.
My legs burn and ache as I wade through the sea, the low fog such that the world seems to fall away. An infinity of grey bores a hole in my vision. The pier floats to my left, a space station, Christmas lights still twinkling. I immerse myself for two seconds of forever and jump straight back out.
I put on my little wooly bluebell hat (which keeps your head from overheating apparently), and enter the airlock of suffocating heat. After the icey winds, the bleak fog of a tourist spot in winter, the sauna feels like a haven.
This communal sauna is full of both hippies and gym lads, distinguished only by their differing volumes. People ask if they can pour more water on the rocks – yes mate, no objections here – and we are all joined in this surreal celebration of feeling. Numbness be damned. This heat would be oppressive in other circumstances, but we are united in choosing this pain, in pushing our senses to their logical limits.
Silence is default, but kindred spirits strike up gentle conversation, and of course the winter solstice is mentioned, alongside a Cannes foreign film winner, and— oh my god, that girl looks twelve, how is she plunging in the sea without complaint? I’m such a wimp.
The attendant pops her head in to check everyone’s okay and put some more logs on the fire. She speaks warmly, and I think I detect a Scandinavian accent but perhaps it’s a placebo from the overwhelming hygge of our environment.
The smell of water on wood burns through my nostrils, heating my nose ring. Molten air forms breath in my lungs, forced to breathe deep to keep in control. It creates a sensation of intense meditation: nothing exists beyond the moment, beyond heat and cold, fire and ice. Thoughts just ooze out through my sweat, my mind empty and glacial, desert-still.
I come out again. Hit the cold shower. Sit on the wooden bench, drinking some water and letting my body reach another extreme before I go back in. My feet are numb. My head is swimming. I’m alive.
The attendant smiles at me, and I try to flirt as I sip my little cup of water. Turns out it’s difficult when you’re shivering, topless, and wearing your silly gnome cap. She laughs. It might have been at me rather than with me. Oh well. Worth a go. We’re all only human.
Jesus, am I high on the steam?
It’s a thoroughly weird and wonderful way to spend that numb liminal post-Christmas time. As I get changed in the little beach hut, I’m tingling, my body in a state of confused ecstasy. Dopamine floods my every pore, and aches and pains and Christmas colds drift away to the back of my mind.
They’re strange, these weeks of feast and drink, of TV and resolutions, petered ends to our terrible years. The days blend, and before any of us have realised a new number will be up on the scoreboard. That reminds me: I have to buy a new Ugly Medieval Cats calendar.
But, right now: it’s Boxing Day, 2024, and I’ve never felt so alive.