Cold water swimmers. Open water swimmers. Whatever they call themselves, they're everywhere now, aren't they? Lockdown activities offered such slim picking that people started wading into the North Sea for fun.

I am one of those people. I prefer to call it wild swimming because that's how it makes me feel. Clambering over slippery green rocks to reach water the colour of strong tea, wading through middens of seaweed and brushing off jellyfish, it's not really about swimming at all for me. It's about mind over matter, getting into nature, doing something so hellish to myself that I remember life isn't so bad after all.

The water temperature around the East Neuk of Fife, where I swim, barely rises about 10C, even in summer. I've learned to breathe through the shock of the cold as it hits in three breathtakingly awful waves - genitals, nipples, and shoulders. Even the most hardened sceptic will learn the power of a mantra when plunging into the North Sea in October. I can do this. Just keep breathing. It's fine once you're in. Or, of course, you can swear. This is what I like to do. The first time I waded in, I was mortified - and secretly a little impressed - at the creative curse words that came out of my mouth. My personal favourite is 'suck a bag of dicks' – I don't know why, but saying it seems to help.

Through wild swimming, I've learned to embrace my hippie side warmly. I meet the water movements wherever they are – whether jagged, smooth, frantic or calm – and go with them. I can no more control the tide, or the wash than I can control the weather and learning to give in and go with it has been a valuable lesson. I have learned to meet myself where I am, too. Whatever you bring to the water – a headache, a bad day, overthinking, work or study stress – is washed away. It is impossible to give mental space to anything other than breathing and moving when wading into the water at a temperature of six degrees, your face sandblasted by a northeast wind.

I like to swim out just enough that I can face the horizon and see nothing but sea, turn onto my back and float, my toes bursting up above the surface. Sometimes I can see gannets soaring and pulling back their wings before plunging straight down into the waves, searching for mackerel. Amid the coldness of the water, the warmth of the sun, the saltwater on my lips, the sound of the seabirds and the waves, the smell of the sea like a fresh oyster – there is stillness, a singular moment every week when I feel incredibly alive.

I've gathered a small band of fellow sadists, and we meet once a week, April to October, to swim, usually at East Sands, in St Andrews, whatever the weather. If the waves are high, we just jump about among them; the most important thing is to face the discomfort of the cold and the wet and experience the feeling of saltwater on our skin. On the good days, with the sun setting over the cathedral, the calm swim is the most beautiful reward for meeting our commitment to ourselves. Each time we are glad we faced the elements and submerged ourselves. We are renewed, replaced. Born again, every week.

If you haven't dipped your toe in wild swimming yet and you'd like to, there are lots of groups you can find online for advice or even tag along. Always swim with others, be prepared with lots of warm layers and a warm drink afterwards, and don't stay in too long, even if you feel fine. And be prepared to learn a few new swear words.