WI didn't I was aware of it until I realized it, but the thin layer of ice on the surface of the water was razor sharp. After we emerged from the water, splashing and reviving our cold hands and feet, we saw small drops of blood on our ankles and knees. I bled the most because I was the first to enter the water and break the ice. We looked at each other and grinned: lesson learned. Next time we'll bring a hockey stick to break up the ice before we go in and wear long-sleeved leggings.
In the summer of 2025, I took the time to swim at high tide at Apex Beach in Iqaluit. I enjoyed the quiet and lively moments so much that I decided to continue until the fall. I then decided it would be great to share the cold water experience with others and see how long we could stay in colder weather. I called some friends and now found myself among a group of women in Iqaluit who enjoy taking a dip in the cold ocean water.
I am Greenlandic on my mother's side and English on my father's side; in Greenland, as in Scandinavia and Great Britain, cold swimming is a common activity. I've always liked it. When I was a child, I made it a point to swim in the river near our cabin on the May long weekend, regardless of whether there was still ice along the shore or not. One summer as a teenager, I didn't use hot water or shampoo for the entire school holiday. My skin and hair felt luxurious.
A couple of years ago, my cousin and I walked along one of the mountains near Nuuk and were completely eaten by midges. We spent the entire hike swatting away bugs in the air around us, our brows furrowed so tightly that our heads began to hurt. At the foot of the mountain, we took off all our clothes, lowered our itching bodies into the water and after a few seconds felt complete relief. The cold salt water sucked out all the discomfort from our bites and dispelled the headaches.
Our family are lifelong sauna fans. You're lounging in a wooden room at a ninety-degree angle, gossiping with naked friends and family, scratching each other's backs and sweating. Once you feel like you've reached the right temperature, you run outside and, depending on the season, scream, cry and choke as you roll around in the snow, or scream, cry and choke as you dump buckets of deathly cold rainwater over your head. Then you sit in the open air, your head is spinning with delight, your skin is smoking, and there is an aura of equanimity above you. While I will definitely go to a spa in an urban environment with fig leaves and silence and thoroughly enjoy it (although I was once kicked out of a queue at a spa in Montreal for laughing too loud), nothing compares to the sheer energy, huskyness and absolute calm of being exposed to thermal cycles of heat and cold in an environment of your own making. The combination of these two temperature extremes provides relief in many ways: it helps reduce the buildup of lactic acid in the muscles after exercise, helps you sleep well, improves circulation, and also helps you bring yourself into the present moment.
Cold immersion in Iqaluit this fall is a new experiential learning journey for me, a much-needed type of healing after many changes in my life. I learn a lot about my mind and body, my shipmates, the environment. Purposefully entering cold water is different from entering a sauna or spa because entering the water requires courage without requiring the shock absorption of leaving or returning to a warm environment. I am learning a new sense of control and release, a new understanding of sitting in discomfort, and a new way to fill my system with self-generated warmth.
At Apex Beach, where we go swimming, long lines of kelp and seagrass can be seen at various high tides throughout the month. Iqaluit has some of the highest tides in the world, so the variety of lines is very large. Inuktitut is home to many species of kelp and seaweed called kikkuaq. Some are long flags with hollow, crispy stems. Some are thin, like clumps of salty, rubbery tumbleweed. Some of them, called ecuticut (“bubble algae”) in Kalaallisut, have variegated stems with blisters filled with a clear, sticky liquid. During one of our dives we found a long branch full of holes. Was it from the precipitation? Were they parasites? It turns out that algae themselves develop holes in order to maintain a more stable position in the water, allowing currents to pass through them.
My Iqaluit colleagues and I are creating a system and ritual of cold water immersion to keep the practice safe and enjoyable. Every time we log in, we adjust what we need to do.
At first we went into the water barefoot, but now we wear thick socks or booties. We added hats, full-length clothing and gloves. The extra layers lighten the load on the soles of your feet and protect your skin. We only swim when it's not windy, raining or snowing too much. While the temperature of the water itself doesn't change too much, getting out of the water and getting dressed again is more bearable in calm winds.
We appear on the beach at high tide, which occurs at different times and at different heights every day, depending on the lunar cycle. We spend a few moments breathing deeply, taking in the view and clearing our minds. One last check on each other and we enter. I quickly lower myself into the water because I find that if I wade in slowly, the wait will be too painful, especially for my crotch and nipples. My lungs spasm, I choke and spit, but I calm down, take a long, slow breath and swim a few strokes.
I dipped my head underwater at the beginning of the season, but as the weather got colder, my brain started to freeze, so I don't do it anymore. My arms and legs are quickly going numb and my heart is pounding. I feel a deep coldness on my chest, like a bite. Only a few seconds pass and we emerge from the water. Everything tingles – this is the paradox of feeling fiery heat due to extreme cold. After half a minute of stomping around, feeling our limbs returning, we dive back into the water for another dip. In the end we return to our clothes and pull them on with fingers that don't quite bend and skin that barely feels.
The moments after a dive are what give me a deep sense of calm and determination that carries me through many days. I feel my body struggling to return to homeostasis, blood returning to all my capillaries, dopamine and serotonin washing over my brain. My gaze lingers on the patterns of water lapping along the shore and the line where the land meets the water across the bay, and I sit with my friends and compare our experiences. A tin cup of hot tea warms the bones of my hands. It's joyful and serene.
For the most part, the Inuit are coastal people. The ocean looms large in the vistas we look at, the resources we draw from, and the depths of the imagination from which we create. We hunt and travel the ocean, and we have stories from time immemorial to this day of people who quickly die when they get caught in arctic waters and can't get out again.
Water is unforgiving, and therefore our visits to it should be brief and done with a clear heart and mind. The ocean is alive, it breathes, it grows and retracts, and it is itself an intelligent being, filled with other intelligent beings, large and small. The blood that the icy ocean drew from our feet as we broke through was only a tiny indication of its immense power.
We thank the Gordon Foundation for supporting the work of writers from Canada's North.
Natalia Pamies Louis
