I’m outside looking at the wild sea at Nauthólsvík beach. It’s noon on a Wednesday, and despite the winter sun and the scarf, hat, winter coat, mittens and wool underwear I have on, I’m freezing. The temperature is 1 degree Celsius, which the astute reader will note is the least amount of positive degrees possible. This is not good, I’m thinking. See, I’m here to partake in sea swimming, a tradition that many people practise here at Nauthólsvík up to six times a week. But I also want to live to tell the tale.