Nieuwjaarsduik 2012

Beverwijk, 09h30, CET:

It’s alive! The undersigned extracts himself from beneath a feather duvet to face a New Year, not too much the worse for moderate “nightcaps” of KWV 10-Year-Old Brandy. I’d slept well!

10h30:

New Year’s Skype with family in South Africa. It’s overcast outside and while the sun tries gamely to break through occasionally, a stiff sou’ wester is driving straight up the English Channel and contemptuously disregarding the Netherlands as it heads for Norway and beyond. It has the flags starched and drives clouds ahead of it, so each minute of sunshine is paid for by a wet squall, with interest.

Now at this stage, I would usually go back to that feather duvet. For years now, I’ve been half threatening to take part in a nieuwjaarsduik. For those uninitiated in Dutch culture, the concept demands some explanation:

When 17 million people live cheek-by-jowl in a country roughly the size of Wales or New Jersey (with two-thirds of them crammed into the western half or Randstad), it’s sociologically understandable that events in which large numbers of the individually sober “doe maar gewoon” Dutch can participate met z’n alle (all together) are popular: ochlophobiacs need not apply. The result (admittedly not exclusively Dutch) is that it is completely OK to do anything outrageously idiotic as long as you do it in a large enough group…

So, each year on January 1, thousands of people (of strong physical constitution but doubtful mental stability) gather at beaches along the North Sea Coast – and sometimes at inland lakes – to take a dive into the icy waters “and wash the cobwebs of the old year away”.

A blustery rather than cold Wijk aan Zee

I’ve always been “in for” anything off-the-wall like that. I’ve dared two friends to join me on previous years but they both had more “pressing engagements” (read: plain common sense). So last year, I decided to do it by myself – to hell with the faint hearted! Mother Nature saved me the trouble. Snow howling in at 40 knots from the general direction of Murmansk meant that all nieuwjaarsduik events were called off. Phew!

You see, I know this dude called Andrew Bergman. He’s got a BIG MOUTH but when it comes to actually de facto schlepping his indolent carcass off to the beach of a New Year’s day (in either Hemisphere), he can be extraordinarily creative, lyrically eloquent, and sagely convincing in the formulation of excuses, even while looking into the mirror!

The rub is that ever since I heard of the phenomenon the first time (and checked the calendar to make sure it wasn’t April 1) it’s been on my “things to do before you die, or to die doing” list. Maybe, if I’m honest with myself, I wanted to “have done it” far more than I actually wanted to “do it”. Either way, it was a box that was begging to be ticked.

So how could I catch my own 22 (or kick my own six)? Dare yourself by mentioning it on your blog (see Fireworks). Public. Published. Alea jacta est! You’re gonna have to fess-up to your readers if you wimp-out this time, groot bek!

11h00:

I’ve know it to be A LOT colder on January 1. The wind – gusting a respectable 5-6 Beaufort, was actually feeding-in comparatively warm air from Spain, the overnight cloud cover acting like a blanket made for a morning with double figures in the black – balmy by any standards. Mother Nature was being kind, providing the warmest New Year’s Day on record, so if ever I could do a nieuwjaarsduik and not freeze my nuts off, this was it!

11h30:

Set-up the cameras, one with an 18-105 and another with a 75-300 and bundled myself and my Better Half into the car. As she often shares my resolute attachment to the feather duvet, she’d only agreed to come because someone she’d chatted to at Douglas had said it was gezellig (a Dutch word that defies translation but hovers somewhere between “cosy” and “congenial”)… and everything heard in Douglas must be true!

12h00:

I’m feeling quite proud of myself. I’ve managed to extricate myself and She Who Must Be Obeyed from the clutches of Morpheus, we’re in the car and I don’t seem to have forgotten anything! Now if you know how scatter-brained this night-owl can be before noon, that’s an achievement! All the more smug as we roll into Wijk aan Zee 10 minutes later along a road I know will be gridlocked 90 minutes from now and slip into a vacant parking bay about 500m from where we have to be.

12h30:

Het Strandhuis is one of the sponsors of the local event, which (after Scheveningen and Zandvoort) has become third-largest in the Netherlands. They’re about to reap the first benefit as we decide to have lunch there. Great place with sandy floors, warm gas fires between the tables and a view out over the North Sea. As well as a good view of the marquee erected as registration and changing facilities for the nieuwjaarsduik; an ideal place to base ourselves, with a ready supply of good coffee and delicious sandwiches from a waitress with cheeky dimples and eyes obviously adept at cajoling tips from any man who isn’t completely blind.


They usually keep a good kitchen. Today they’ve whittled-down the menu in (wise) anticipation of the rush. We agree to take advantage of our position and keep a bum on one of the seats at this table until we’re ready to venture out.

13h00:

Lunch. Warm sandwiches and appropriately wintry venison ragout. The place is starting to fill-up and the demand seems to be outstripping the supply, so don’t leave the table unattended. You snooze, you lose!

14h00:

Official registration has opened, so I break the cover of Het Strandhuis and head for the marquee. After handing-in a form that basically states that I don’t hold anyone else responsible for my own idiocy, I’m issued with a day-glo orange cap from co-sponsor Unox, producer of the paradigm traditional Dutch cockle-warmer snert – chunky pea soup with ham and smoked sausage. Each diver was promised a cup later.

14h10:

Back to the comfort of the strandtent and a final double espresso. We can see the crowds starting to gather around the Marquee but the actual nieuwjaarsduik only happens at 15h00.

14h15:

We surrender our long-held table to the most alert of the newcomers and make our way towards the marquee. It’s divided into two parts, clearly marked for “men” and “women” but the Dutch are a bit Scandinavian about changing in public, so the gender distinction is cheerfully and communally ignored.

14h30:

I dodge bums and boobs to emerge in my nieuwjaarsduik gear. There’s a large trailer on the beach with a DJ surrounded by obscenely large rock-concert speakers. He’s playing the Ibiza hits from last summer in a (quite successful) attempt to convince all present that it’s not really all that cold. Actually, in my thick, hooded Covent Garden bathrobe, I’m no colder than on Guard Parade in a kilt on a cold Cape Town winter’s morning at The Castle. But today, at least I’m wearing undergarments…

The area is dotted with people in yellow safety vests from the reddingsbrigade, the local crew of Royal Dutch Sea Rescue. They’re volunteers to a man/woman and you couldn’t dream of staging an event like this without them. Thanks guys! The “safety net” you provided was really appreciated!

Several of abovementioned crew, clad in survival suits, make their way down to the water’s edge in an appropriately wheeled ATV. Others man the barriers – no more than chevron-tape – to the duik area.

14h45:

Unox beanie is de rigeur – either for a sense of belonging or for a feeling of anonymity – whichever floats your boat. Anything else is optional. Actually, I think some of the Dutch are secretly (or less secretly) celebrating an opportunity not to have to share their beach with the Germans, who descend on the Dutch beaches en masse in the summer months, are essential to the local and national economy but with whom the Dutch have had an understandably problematic relationship since 1940.

I’ve landed up between a group of strapping 20-somethings and a detachment of Dutch Marines who have retained their black berets. Even Her Majesty’s Bravest still wear a bathrobe as the first barriers are lifted and a tsunami of orange beanies descends on the piste, now separated from the North Sea by only a thin line of chevron tape a few metres from the water line and about five Sea Rescue dudes in survival suits about 25m out and therefore waist-deep in the water. R-E-S-P-E-C-T!

14h50:

Just ten minutes to go and the DJ and his enthusiastic colleague (it’s fine for her – she’s still got her coat on) are getting the sea of Unox beanies to bop and warm-up. Good idea ‘cause the squalls are getting more frequent, participants’ t-shirts and bathrobes are getting wet (while the droplets simply roll off my superior Covent Garden variety) but however relatively warm the wind, force-6 gusts whip-up a chill factor that even the fastest-digging ostrich can’t deny and the Unox beanies are soon sodden – right down to the cue-ball of my scalp!

14h59:

The Mayor, complete with dark suit and official Chain of Office, was totally overdressed for the occasion. Damn it! Surely the man’s PR people should have advised him that in 2012, there is loads more political mileage to be gained from swapping the undertaker’s costume for a Unox beanie and a bathrobe and actually participating in the nieuwjaarsduik on this abnormally mild New Year’s Day? Fire them, Alderman!

Whatever. The countdown begins. This is the moment we have all been waiting for! We watch the DJ’s fingers ‘cause nothing is audible above base-line of the music, the sound of the sea and the adrenalin rushing through your ears. The liberating feeling of doing something that looks and seems completely crazy and enjoying being just another anonymous bopping beanie in the crowd. Bathrobe and t-shirt stripped off and stashed on the fence…

15h00:

I am told, because I can’t hear it above the hubbub, that a starter’s pistol was fired. All I know is that the final barrier of chevron tape between the front ranks and the water fell away. As did about 27 years. I took-off from a standing start with a 20-something farm boy on my right and a 30-something Marine Sub-Lieutenant on my left. We ran three-abreast, not quite a sprint but faster than a simple jog, chatting and quipping all the way during the 75-m dash to the water’s edge. Oblivion save for the sound of the waves around my ears. This was a “dive”, not an extended “swim” after all.

15h02:

Quick turnaround and back up the beach to retrieve my bathrobe. But now, I’m swimming against a human tide that comes in all shapes and sizes and I mean ALL…

Some of those 27 years had returned half-way back up the beach, so my headlong charge slowed to a brisk walk. Stiff upper lip, old boy! There were far too many tight young bikini-clad bodies for me to reveal my old-fartness. Think I managed to keep my breathlessness at dignified Attenborough-style levels…

15h05:

The gusts are rattling the plasticised-canvas sides of the changing marquee so there’s nowhere to hang anything. Once again, the gender distinction has been universally ignored, but nobody gives a jot, ‘cause changing into dry clothes is far more important than modesty: Bathing shorts and sodden t-shirt off. Dry clothes on. No other priority. Besides, we’ve just dived into the North Sea met z’n alle so we’re virtually family...

15h15:

Wet rags in the bag. I’m outa this seething mass of baggies, bikinis and pheromones. I’ve done it! I can walk town any street in the Netherlands wearing my Unox beanie as a Badge of Honour and Entitlement. I feel I’ve passed a milestone in my process of social inburgering (literally “naturalisation” but with far more political baggage) and received yet another klap van de molen.

15h30:

It’s gonna be a good year! It’s only five minutes’ walk from the car and as a savvy local, I know how to skirt around the traffic to get home – what the pro-conformity Dutch call a sluiproute (a sly route).

16h00:

It’s nice to be home as I share my ageing tuxedo cat’s affinity with the gas fire… According to the breaking newswires, 36,000 people participated in the nieuwjaarsduik at 89 locations - 1,000 of them at Wijk aan Zee. Box ticked! You can view the full photo album, on my Facebook page.

19h00:

Thawed, showered, shaved, and with a snifter of 10-Year-Old KWV Brandy within easy striking distance, life it good! Having proved (just in case you ever doubted) he’s a man who puts his money where his mouth is, your Blogger hopes to do it all again next year, whatever the weather, and convince Her Highness (a trip to Douglas should do it) to take pics to prove it! In the meantime, any reports of generous donations and/or bequests from readers to appropriate charities such as (but not restricted to) guide dogs for the blind, Zaanstad Bird Sanctuary, the PDSA in Cape Town or the Royal Masonic Benevolent Istitution will only strengthen his resolve! – AMB

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son! – Bro. Rudyard Kipling



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