Having always admired and envied the jolly, English eccentric swimmers who partake in a yearly freezing cold plunge in the Channel or who regularly swim effortlessly in the Hampstead ponds, I seized the opportunity when invited to join the residents of my apartment block on their daily swim. I was staying in a sleepy, slow Mexican municipality on the coast of Oaxaca. An interesting place with a mixture of ripped, handsome surfers who took on enormous waves without flinching and old American alcoholics who seemed like they too had been surfers at some point but had got washed ashore and never left. "You can swim well I'm assuming Chloe?" asked Cathy - an English teacher and teacher trainer of over 20 years may I add, who has lived and taught all over South America it would seem. "Yeah, yeah. I swim all the time in London!" Which is not a lie in fact. I do often take to the waters of Streatham Ice and Leisure where I enjoy a few lengths. "So what we do is, we swim from one beach to another and it's about 1km. We leave at 7.30." said Cathy with a smile that reached her eyes. "Ok. Sounds great. See you in the morning then." Had I really grasped how far 1km was? We met downstairs at exactly 7.30, which NEVER happens in Mexico so I knew these guys were serious. Gary, Cathy's husband seemed very time aware. Something that is not in my nature and that I'm convinced is a personality trait of a psychopath. A bit like people who unpack the day they come home from holiday. Also psychopaths in my opinion. So we're off. Bare feet. Wearing only swimsuits and with goggles in hand, I felt ready. I chose my M&S costume since I figured that if I'm to be walking the streets of Mexico practically naked, then I need to choose the most modest so the high-leg, plunge neckline ensemble was out of the question this morning. As we walked passed some retired, elderly Mexican locals, I could practically feel the old ladies' eyes scorch me. They looked on silently disapproving, but it was too late now. I had committed myself. I was part of an eccentric English swimmers’ group and I felt proud. Arms swinging, chin high we matched on. We get to the shore and almost immediately, they start doing an array of interesting shoulder stretches in unison. These guys were well seasoned, fearless swimmers and weren’t afraid to let everyone know. I joined in for fear of looking like I wasn't as serious as them. "So it's just to that rock and round to the right." said Gary, eager to get going. "And then you just follow it." I could his tell his delegated duty of welcoming the newcomer was somewhat of an inconvenience to him. He was impatiently wagging a finger towards a vast, endless ocean without even checking whether or not I could see what he was referring to. "Just around kinda. Sorta." he said gesticulating wildly. Had there ever been a more vague set of directions? Before I knew it, I was in the water and following Cathy who had shot off in her swim hat and goggles and I felt I was doing quite well. It was amazing - a sleepy morning sky with wisps of golden clouds, minuscule birds flying overhead and a beautiful warm, lulling ocean, which I couldn't help thinking was due to the piss that yesterday's kids had been too desperate to hold. I also couldn't help but think that I looked like a flailing mess but when I looked back to a very distant shore, a shot of confidence ran through me when I realised I must be doing quite well. Scenes of Jaws movies started to run around my brain. I was imagining headlines 'English girl dragged to shore!' The waves felt stronger and we regrouped. "How you feeling Chloe? We're about a third of the way there." Through my goggles, my eyes widened. A third? Jesus! Santos cielos! As I looked at the next part of the course, I saw some fierce waves and I had visions of my head being splattered like a watermelon against the unyielding rock faces. I ducked out. I'd been humbled by the ocean. Like a parent to a child, enough was enough. Feeling victorious with my achievements, I swam back and drunk 363736383 litres of sea water whilst doing so. On reaching the shore, it hit me. Not only was I still barefoot and practically naked but this time I was alone, bedraggled and had the giant imprints of my goggles around my eyes. My 2-minute solo catwalk past the packed local café felt like an eternity In slow motion. I don't think they'd ever seen legs as white as mine in their whole life. I'm not sure if they were more perplexed or amused to see what looked like someone who'd just found themselves wandering barefoot around the sandy streets of a sleepy, coastal municipality with nothing more than three of four shops, a hair salon and a restaurant where the world and his friend gathered three times a day. And then there is a me, shuffling home with but a pair of goggles in hand and a room key shoved into my costume. The sound of the key in the lock had never been more welcome. But I had done it, not the full 1km, but I had done it. I had gone wild swimming with an English eccentric and her not so eccentric husband and the smiley owner of the holiday rental apartment block. Bucket list box most definitely ticked.