Quiet courage in the darkess

Jharna Kumawat finds calm, connection and quiet courage through night swimming

I used to think swimming was all about what you could see: the orange marker buoy ahead, the coastline inching closer, the reassuring nod from a kayak escort. Night swimming changed that completely. It showed me that some of the most memorable swims happen when vision fades and everything else sharpens – sensation, sound, rhythm and trust.

My first taste of swimming in the dark came during my English Channel qualifying swim (May 2022). It wasn’t something I’d actively planned; it was simply part of the challenge – a box to tick on the long road to becoming a potential Channel swimmer. The set‑up was both practical and oddly enchanting. A small night light clipped to the back of my cap, another glowing gently inside my tow float. Around me, the sea was speckled with illuminated buoys and the soft, flickering outlines of other swimmers – around 25 of us sharing the same stretch of dark water, each moving through our own glowing bubble of light and streamlined focus.

The swim started at 10pm and ran for 90 minutes around a one‑mile course, which you could repeat as many times as you liked. The freedom was appealing, even if the conditions were bracing. It was May, and the sea temperature hovered around 15 degrees – manageable, but still delightfully nippy. As Channel rules dictate, there was no wetsuit: just a standard silicone cap, goggles and a swimsuit. Nothing between you and the water except experience, determination and a decent dose of stubbornness.

At night, the sea feels different – in a good way. Sounds travel more clearly, the water feels heavier, more purposeful. With visual cues stripped away, your swimming turns inward. You tune into your breathing (bubble, bubble, breathe), the steady pull of each stroke, the quiet cues from your body. The cold sneaks in a little quicker, but with it comes with focus and a surprising sense of calm. You stop resisting and start responding.

Swimming alongside others added an unexpected warmth. We weren’t chatting or racing – just sharing the darkness. Our lights formed a loose constellation on the water, a gentle reminder that even at night, you’re never really alone. Confession: I’m afraid of the dark. I love early morning swims – sunrise feels friendly and forgiving. And yet, here I was, finding comfort in the very thing I thought I’d dread.

That qualifying swim stayed with me long after I climbed out of the sea. And after completing a successful English Channel relay, night swimming found its way back into my life – this time in a setting that felt more playful, but no less special.

Enter Level Water’s 24‑hour relay in 2025. Six of us formed a team, camping by a lake and taking turns to keep a swimmer in the water for a full day and night. If the Channel qualifier was about endurance and proving readiness, this event was all about rhythm, teamwork and shared purpose.

One of my swim slots during the 24 hours was at 2am.

And honestly? It was magical.

There’s something special about that hour. The campsite was hushed, tents zipped tight, the lake still and expectant. As I pulled on my swimsuit for my third swim of the relay, the world felt paused – as if the day had exhaled and hadn’t quite inhaled again.

Slipping into the lake at 2am turned out to be one of the calmest swimming experiences I’ve ever had. The water was dark, yes, but welcoming. The surface barely rippled. My tow float light created small halos that danced quietly with each stroke, while above me the sky felt wide and watchful, stars gleaming softly overhead.

Physically, it wasn’t demanding in the way Channel training had been – but it offered something just as valuable: perspective. It reminded me why I swim outdoors in the first place. Not to chase distances or tick boxes, but to collect moments that feel rare, slightly surreal, and deeply grounding. Moments that belong entirely to the water – and, in this case, the dark.