The cold never bothered me anyway.
“Take off your clothes,” the Italian woman says. She’s speaking in English, into a loudspeaker. The crowd lining the poolside and balcony go quiet.
“Get into the water.” Eight of us shuffle to the edge of the pool. There is one ladder for two lanes. The competitor in lane one eyes me through reflective goggles, saying nothing. After a polite pause, I descend first.
The ice chills the skin at the start – that’s the most painful. Your toes and fingers feel like they’re being sliced off. Thankfully, you soon lose the feeling of them completely and you’re left to swim as if you have no hands and feet. The body reacts to the cold by stopping the blood circulation, bit by bit, to all the less important things in an effort to keep warm blood around your heart and essential organs. You have to work to keep your mind focused, because it’s trouble when the body decides keeping the brain switched on is a luxury it can’t afford.
At this point, I don’t know that the water temperature is 1.7°C. All I know is that it’s well below the regulation maximum of 5°C. Earlier in the week, the fire brigade used axes and shovels to hack the ice out of the pool so that it would be liquid enough for us to swim in.
“Take your marks,” the official says, and I put one hand in front of me; the other holds on to the bar of the diving block. We are not permitted to dive in. The sudden shock can cause serious health issues.
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The start sound goes and the race is on, eight women thrashing down a 50-metre pool in the first length of twenty in the 1000m. This is the longest distance at the International Ice Swimming Association’s World Ice Swimming Championships, held in Molveno, northern Italy, in January. It’s the dead of winter in Europe. The 1000m is one of the five races I’m competing in for New Zealand.
No wetsuits allowed
Flashback to 2023: I’d read about ice swimmer and all-round legend Rachel Armstrong in 1964: mountain culture / aotearoa. Rachel has long been an inspiration for me (she recently became the first person to swim the length of Lake Hāwea) and she’s a great person to talk to when you’re thinking about doing something silly (or dangerous) because her answer is inevitably: “Yeah! Do it!”
Rachel swam her way to four medals at the fifth IISA World Championships in Samoëns, France. Two golds, a silver and a bronze, including a world record in her age category. She told me it was the adventure of a lifetime. What appealed to me most was that wetsuits aren’t allowed.
When I first began open water swimming in 2012, I lined up at the start line of the Auckland Harbour crossing in my togs, shocked to see everyone else was wearing swimming-specific wetsuits. I’d seen surfers wear wetsuits before – but not swimmers! Open water swimming became a favourite hobby, and when I joined the Southern Lakes Swimming Club in Tāhuna Queenstown, I did think about saving up to buy a wetsuit. But by the time I had the cash, I was used to Lake Whakatipu’s fresh temperatures (the water ranges from 16°C to 7°C at its winter low).
After putting my dangerous idea to Rachel (“Yeah! Do it!”), I signed up for the Open Water National Ice Swimming Championships in St Bathans, Central Otago.
St Bathans is a historic mining town containing the country’s most haunted pub, less than a dozen human residents and several hundred wild boars who are purportedly staging a coup. In the 1860s, it was a thriving gold mining town. The miners chipped and sluiced their way through the quartz rock seam at the foot of Mount Saint Bathans for more than 60 years until the pit was 168 metres deep and threatening to engulf the town. Forced to stop, the miners trickled away to other gold-rich regions, and water trickled into the pit, creating Blue Lake. Minerals in the surrounding rocks have caused the water to shimmer in striking shades of blue. The quartz rock sides of the pit look like white-grey pillars, prompting one of the ice swimmers to say it’s “like swimming in a cathedral”.
Ice swimming is classed as an extreme sport, so there are prerequisites before you can dive in at the deep end. There’s a full medical check and an ECG. You must have successfully survived a 500-metre swim before you can do the kilometre, and survived a kilometre before you can do an ice mile. The ice mile (1.6 kilometres) is considered the pinnacle of ice swimming and is usually attempted in the open water.
In open water events, each swimmer sets off individually, accompanied by an Inflatable Rescue Boat (IRB) which has a driver, a medic and someone assigned to count your stroke rate and assess how you’re doing. It’s not unheard of for ice swimmers to suddenly begin to sink, or start to inhale water. But at St Bathans, the water was so flat, the cathedral-like walls surrounded me so that I felt as though I was swimming in mid-air. It was beautiful, blissful. I wanted more. Having successfully completed a 500-metre and a 1-kilometre ice swim, I vowed I’d be back to attempt a mile.
The next ice swimming competition wouldn’t be in open water, however, it would be at the outdoor pool in Alexandra (average temperature, 2 degrees). This is because every two years, IISA Aotearoa New Zealand uses the National Ice Swimming Championships to pick its team for the World Championships, and the association requires a set distance to accurately measure times. The changeable conditions of a lake wouldn’t do. Another difference with the competitive pool-based ice swimming championships is that different swims are available: 50m and 100m in breaststroke, backstroke and butterfly, up to a 1000m in freestyle and, brand-new for 2024, a 200m Individual Medley, or IM (butterfly, backstroke, breaststroke and then front crawl).
Knowing it would be another year before I could attempt a mile, I decided to enter some “fun” swims at the champs in Alexandra. Fellow Queenstown-based swimmers Lucas Fornes and Anneke Veenstra joined me, and local amateur film-maker Marijn Wouters followed our training journey and swimming escapades. (The result, a 10-minute movie called Freezing for Fun, is on YouTube.) I enjoyed the pool-based ice swimming more than I imagined I would – all the thrills of ice swimming were there, but I felt confident enough to push myself that bit harder because if something went wrong, help was more accessible.
Coincidentally, I’d just become a New Zealand citizen. So, when I was told shortly afterwards that my times made me eligible to apply for New Zealand’s ice swimming team, I jumped at the chance. Anneke qualified for the Dutch team. Taranaki-based swimmer Madeline Hobo broke the junior world record at Alexandra, and would also join the New Zealand team to defend her title of Junior World Ice Queen.
Training on ice
I wear the regulation single silicone cap, standard swimming costume, goggles, plus a belt which will be used to pull me out of the water if I begin to fail. There’s a watchful official at each end of the pool. One counts my stroke rate, checking for any changes – a sign I’m succumbing to the cold. The other lifts cards on a board, counting down the laps so I know how long I have left to go.
Meg Agnew, para ice swimmer and one of our team nurses, is my second. She’s there to look for any signs I’m failing, too, and she’ll help me get changed afterwards; I’ll be so cold at the end of this swim, I’ll be unable to undress and dress myself. It’s Meg’s job to help me get my wet things off quickly and to clothe me first in merino base layers, then in lots of other warm clothing so I slowly re-warm. Reheat too quickly and your heart might stop. Did I mention this is an extreme sport?
The 2025 IISA World Championships were the sixth, but this would be only the second time New Zealand entered a team. We were a diverse group: 16 swimmers and para swimmers from across the country, aged from 16 to 70 years old. On paper, we weren’t much to reckon with. Unknown, unremarkable.
A new race began. As ice swimming is a relatively new sport in Aotearoa, we had no official funding. Getting to Italy, plus entry fees, uniforms and professional insurance for extreme athletes, wasn’t going to be cheap. But first we needed a name. After a long meeting at which we briefly considered trying to get rid of the New Zealand ice hockey teams (the Ice Blacks and the Ice Ferns), team manager Roger Soulsby came up with the winning idea: the Frozen Ferns.
While the excitement representing New Zealand never wore off, the hours of training, admin and chasing money on top of work and everyday life were difficult. Despite several news stories, including a feature on 7 Sharp, almost every sports funding organisation we called seemed to think we’d made the sport up. Wattie’s welcomed our proposal, but went cold after we sent it.
Thankfully, the Queenstown community rallied around Anneke and me. There was even a fundraiser screening Marijn’s film at the Queenstown pool. Somehow, we wrangled just enough resources to get us there, although one of our uniform suppliers stuffed up our order, and we received our outfits two weeks after the competition.
Meanwhile, the Southern Hemisphere winter slipped into summer, and our pursuit of cold enough water saw us making trips up to Lake Alta, set at altitude far above Queenstown, and cuddling buckets of ice in home-made ice baths. Fortunately, our team manager had already clocked this seasonal difficulty, and so the Frozen Ferns campaign began with a week-long training camp in the United Kingdom, at Castle Ashby, Northamptonshire. There we met David Coleman, a New Zealand ice swimming legend, and Richard Moore, our local host. We stayed with families in surrounding villages.
Northamptonshire is the county of “squires and spires”, dotted with quaint villages and grand estates. Castle Ashby is one of those estates, a 10,500-acre pile owned by the Marquess of Northampton. Academics have theorised that the house, built in 1600 in the Elizabethan style, was the basis for Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park. We used the pond for our acclimatisation training.
Each morning, our host families would drop us off and we’d stand at the edge of the water waiting for the lifeguard to tell us the temperature. Day one felt intolerably cold, but was above the required 5°C. The water was a dark grey-green, made duller by the winter skies above us. As the week wore on, the temperatures dropped until one morning we were turned away. The pond had frozen over. As the BBC reported with glee: “Frozen Ferns Training on Ice!”
The news coverage and our odd-looking double-tasselled hats began drawing attention. After our training sessions, Richard took us to local attractions. We had cream tea, scotch eggs, pork pies, fish and chips (the food of champions). Curious locals approached us with questions and undoubtedly walked away with more – why would anyone put their body through such a thing? By the end of the week, we were re-accustomed to the icy water and we had the people of Northamptonshire on our side.
Frozen Ferns vs the world
“Bethany Rogers blah blah blah,” says the official on the megaphone.
I panic. Are they saying I have to get out?
I have eight laps left. Or is it ten?
I try to count my strokes, but the numbers squirm and slip away like eels.
Am I dreaming that I’m swimming while I sink to the bottom? It happened in the heat before mine, two swimmers rushed off to the medical room.
Approaching the turn, I decide to look at Meg, and the official, and check the lap counter.
I hear my name again over the loudspeaker.
Looking at three things at once means I stumble into the turn and crash into the wall. I quickly push off, worried I am failing and they are going to pull me out and it’s game over.
But that’s not the case. I have only six laps left to go. And they’re saying my name because I’m coming second in the heat. I don’t find this out until later. For the moment, I keep swimming.
Molveno is a small ski town at the foot of the Dolomites in Italy. If St Bathans is a cathedral, this is St. Peter’s Basilica. Lake Molveno is often said to be the prettiest lake in Italy, although that’s not where we’d be racing. It’s safe to say Europe has the edge over New Zealand when it comes to sports facilities: despite being about the size of Arrowtown, Molveno has an open-air, Olympic-sized swimming pool.
We arrived exhausted after a long-delayed Ryanair flight. Our swimming costumes had been held up in customs in Italy, and officials demanded more paperwork and more money until they could be sent to us. A mistranslation meant that our apartments weren’t what we’d expected: we’d been told we had 38 beds, but 12 of those turned out to be six double sofa beds. Frozen Ferns team captain Laetitia Bergen (originally from Belgium) and I led negotiations with the apartment manager in a mixture of French, English, Italian and (I can’t remember why) Spanish. In the end, one swimmer’s dad slept in a ski cupboard.
The opening day of the World Championships was a blur. Despite 752 competitors lining up for their medical check, there was only one doctor. Several people fainted in the queue. Some of our medical team, doctor Karen Brisley and nurse Bri Duffield, began assisting with the exams. By the end of the day, teams from around the world were beginning to notice the small team with the funny hats, dressed in all black.
The Frozen Ferns took up a position on the balcony. Behind us was the call room, where we’d wait to be called up, heat by heat, lane by lane, before being sent down to the pool. We hung out our New Zealand flags and banners and cheered loudly. The team from Argentina (two blokes sipping on a cup of hot mate) and a lady from the Chilean team joined in, and we soon created a Southern Hemisphere corner, drowning out all the other nations (with the exception of the Swiss team, who’d come armed with cow bells). The Frozen Ferns quickly established ourselves as one of the most notable teams there – not just because of the racket. We began to win stuff.
Three Frozen Ferns made it to the finals of the women’s 200m individual medley: Emilia Finer of Dunedin broke her own world record, and Heidi Winter nabbed bronze, while her sister Sophie finished fourth. The Winter sisters went on to bring 15 medals between them back to Alexandra. Just 16 years old, Heidi got three world records, while 17-year-old Sophie picked up an open gold win in the 100m breaststroke with a hair-raising finish. She swam freestyle so beautifully that one of the Swiss team started making arrangements to kidnap her. “We’ll have her. It’s all arranged. I have a most excellent coach and some good swimming pools to choose from. Tell me, is Alexandra a large city? Are the facilities good?” she asked me. I told her she’d have to get through Mrs Winter first.
In the end, Emilia took home eight medals, two open world championship titles, plus one open and two age group records. Wānaka’s Cameron Stanley got the bronze in the men’s 100m backstroke on day one and para swimmers Meg Agnew and Francois Lambrechts picked up multiple medals too. My training mate Anneke won three medals, one of each colour in classic Dutch orderly fashion, and I won a silver (100m backstroke) and two bronze (1km freestyle, 200 IM). For a brain-numbing ten minutes, I even held the age group world record for the 200 IM. I was later beaten, twice, but was thrilled to take home the bronze and a cherished screenshot of ‘WR’ next to my name. Despite being one of the smallest teams and arriving at an ice swimming event directly from a hot summer, New Zealand came fourth in the world medal count.
Only a few laps left now and I’m calm. I’ve regained control of my swim, refocused on the rhythm of my stroke. I can’t hear a thing and I can’t feel my hands or my feet, but everything feels right. All I need to do now is bring it home.
My finish doesn’t feel strong or fast, but it’s steady. I hit the wall with authority and turn to look down the pool and try to take it all in: the vigilant officials, the other swimmers chasing dreams. I breathe to the left and catch a glimpse of pink-grey mountains. I breathe to the right and see the Frozen Ferns – true and adopted – cheering from the stands.
