Wetsuit vs Skins: Why There’s No Right Way to Cold Water Swimming
Cold water swimming, wetsuits, and why your body gets the final say
It started with an honest post about wetsuit vs skins cold water swimming.
I shared a photo of myself, layered up more than I usually would be, and wrote about something I hadn’t really said out loud before.
This winter had been harder than I expected. My ability to cope with the cold had dropped. Between broken sleep, toddler life, and a constant stream of bugs, my body just wasn’t handling it the same way.
I was still getting in the water. Still dipping. Still guiding others. But actually swimming properly? That had become a different story.
So instead of forcing it, I adapted.
I added layers. My 1.5mm Zone3 neoprene shorty wetsuit. A long-sleeved swimming costume. Neoprene gloves and socks. Even a neoprene hat under my swim hat.
Not because I had to, but because it’s what my body needed right now.
What I didn’t fully expect was the response.
The Response
There were over 60 comments on Facebook alone, and the overwhelming feeling was not judgement but relief.
People recognised themselves in it. People admitted things they hadn’t really said out loud before: they were struggling, their bodies had changed, and they felt like they were somehow getting it wrong.
“I’m often told I’m cheating wearing a wetsuit in winter… but it’s what my body needs right now.”
“Initially I felt like a fraud… but then I thought, so what? I’m still swimming.”
Some spoke about pressure from others.
“Some groups here near me still won’t let you join them unless you do it ‘properly’ without a wetsuit.”
Others spoke about how their capacity had shifted over time.
“I’ve had a tough time this winter and my body has just not felt like getting in the cold much at all.”
And again and again, the same theme kept coming through. Not judgement. Just a quiet sense of permission. To adapt. To change. To listen.
Because the truth is, I understand. I’ve been on both sides of it.
My first wetsuit and cold water swimming beginnings
My first wetsuit came not long after my first ever open water swim.
That swim was a five kilometre crossing between Malta and Gozo. Somewhere along the way I met someone who had swum the English Channel, and by the end of the trip I had somehow been talked into booking my own solo attempt two years down the line.
I came back to the UK at the end of the summer and realised I had a problem. If I was going to train for the Channel, I needed to keep swimming through the winter.
So I bought my first wetsuit. A fabulous BlueSeventy wetsuit. I still have it now, patched up in places and passed between swimmers over the years.
At the time, I loved it.
It felt like the answer to everything. Warm, buoyant, reassuring. I remember putting it on and feeling like I had superpowers, like it made me faster, stronger, more capable. It meant I could keep swimming when the temperature dropped, and I didn’t question it beyond that.
It was just a brilliant bit of kit that let me stay in the water.
That was, until I realised that if I really wanted to swim the Channel, I wasn’t supposed to be wearing one at all.
The shift to skins swimming
I started looking for people to swim with through the winter.
That’s when things began to shift.
I found a group down at Southbourne Beach in Bournemouth. Brilliant swimmers, welcoming, experienced. None of them wore wetsuits.
Around the same time, I started spending weekends training at Dover Harbour, where many Channel swimmers train.
It was the same there. No wetsuits. Just gradual acclimatisation. Getting in regularly, building time in the water, letting your body adjust.
It wasn’t something that was questioned or debated. It was just how it was done.
And without really thinking about it, I adapted. The wetsuit got hung up, and I began swimming through the winter without it.
I also entered my first winter swimming competition, the UK Cold Water Swimming Championships at Tooting Bec Lido. It followed International Winter Swimming Association rules, which meant no wetsuits.
So it wasn’t just something I was doing in training anymore. It became how I swam.
Over time, that stopped feeling like a choice and started to feel like part of my identity. I wasn’t just someone who swam outdoors. I was a swimmer who didn’t wear a wetsuit.
Cold water swimming culture: wetsuit vs skins
It wasn’t something anyone ever formally explained to me at the time, but looking back, I had stepped into a very particular culture.
In open water swimming, there’s a distinction between swimming in a wetsuit and swimming “skins”, which means wearing a standard swimsuit, goggles, and a cap, with no neoprene or added buoyancy.
On the surface, that’s just a difference in kit. But in reality, it often carries a bit more weight than that.
Because once you remove the wetsuit, you’re not just removing insulation. You’re removing buoyancy too. You’re fully exposed to the cold, and your body has to adapt to it over time. And for many swimmers, that is the point.
The cold isn’t something to get around. It’s something to meet, to train for, to endure.
Historically, that idea runs deep. Channel swimming has always followed strict rules around not wearing wetsuits, going all the way back to the earliest crossings. That standard has shaped what is often seen as the traditional form of the sport.
And when you spend time in those environments, you start to pick up on it. What is normal. What people do. How people talk about it.
For me, though, it was never about one being better or tougher than anyone else.
I’ve always thought wetsuits are a brilliant piece of kit. They make swimming more accessible, more comfortable, and for many people, make it possible at all.
At that point in my own swimming, I simply wasn’t using one. Partly because of the Channel rules. Partly because of the people I was swimming with. And partly because I’d learned how to adapt to the cold without one.
So I became a swimmer who didn’t wear a wetsuit. Not because I believed it was the only way. Just because it was the way I was swimming.
When your body changes in cold water swimming
Fast forward fifteen years.
In that time, I’d completed swims I once thought were impossible. A solo English Channel crossing. The lengths of two of the longest freshwater lochs in Scotland, Loch Awe and Loch Lomond. Long swims in lakes across Europe. Winter swimming competitions in the UK and around the world. An Ice Mile, becoming the 264th person in the world to complete one under International Ice Swimming Association rules.
I swam all these without a wetsuit.
I still thought wetsuits were a fantastic piece of kit, though.
When I teach introduction to open water courses, I actively encourage people to wear a wetsuit if that’s what helps them feel more comfortable and confident in cold water.
And during my time as Event Director of the Scottish Winter Swimming Championships, an International Winter Swimming Association event where wetsuits are not permitted, I created an additional “anything goes” category.
The idea was simple. To give people a way to take part while wearing whatever they needed. Wetsuits, gloves, socks, extra layers, etc. What I hadn’t anticipated was quite how creative people would get, with everything from full neoprene to full fancy dress. But at its core, it was about making space for more people to be part of it.
Occasionally I’d put one on for safety training or coaching, but for my own swimming, I didn’t need it. My body knew how to deal with the cold. I trusted it.
Pregnancy changed the equation
Then, when I was pregnant, for the first time in a long time, something shifted.
It wasn’t so much how I felt in the water. I could still get in. I could still cope. But afterwards, I was wiped out. Completely drained in a way I hadn’t experienced before.
So I adapted.
I put on a very stretchy wetsuit. Not as a big decision, not with any internal debate. It was just obvious. My body needed a bit more support, and that was that.
After my son was born, I went straight back to swimming. Back into just a swimsuit. Back into the cold.
That first winter, it made sense to take it gently. I dipped. I kept it short. I had a newborn. There was no pressure to do more. And for a while, that felt fine.
This winter felt different
But now my little boy is two, and this winter has been different.
He’s older now. Life is fuller, busier, louder. A return of broken sleep, more movement, constant low-level exhaustion. Endless bugs.
And I’ve felt it, not just in life, but in the water.
I’ve wanted to stay in longer, to swim properly again, to build back towards something. But every time, my body has said no. Not dramatically. Just quietly, firmly.
That sense that if I stayed in a bit too long, I’d pay for it later. Not just in how I felt, but in what came next. I couldn’t afford to be exhausted. I couldn’t just go home and rest. I had a toddler who needed me.
I’ve watched others swimming through the winter, building distance, doing incredible things. And I’ve mostly been dipping. In and out. Because that’s all I’ve had in me.
And eventually, I had to admit something I didn’t really want to. My capacity for the cold had changed.
When spring changes your mindset
At the same time, something else shifted. The seasons.
It’s that point in the year where it starts to feel like spring, even if the water is still cold. Where your mindset moves forward before the temperature does.
And I realised I didn’t just want to dip anymore. I wanted to swim. Properly. With some rhythm. Some distance. With something to build towards again.
But the water is still cold. And my body is still tired.
So I made a decision. Not a dramatic one. Not a difficult one.
I put the wetsuit back on.
What cold water swimming really costs your body
For a long time, I didn’t really question any of this.
I knew the cold was hard. I knew it took getting used to. But once you’d adapted, it just felt like part of the process. Something you could train through. Something your body would learn to handle.
Cold water swimming is also an energy demand
But the more I’ve reflected on this winter, the more I’ve realised that cold water swimming isn’t just about tolerance.
It’s about energy.
When you get into cold water, your body is working immediately to try and keep your core temperature stable. You lose heat far more quickly in water than you do in air, and your body has to respond fast.
Blood is pulled away from your extremities. Your breathing changes. Your heart rate spikes. Then, once you settle, your body starts generating heat just to keep you going.
All of that takes energy. And that’s before you’ve even started swimming.
Swimming without a wetsuit adds another layer to that.
You’re not just swimming. You’re also constantly managing your temperature. Your body is working to produce heat at the same time as it’s trying to move you through the water.
Which means the same swim, in the same conditions, can cost significantly more, not just physically in the moment, but afterwards too.
And that’s the part I think we don’t talk about enough. The recovery.
Because it’s not just about how long you can stay in. It’s about what it takes out of you afterwards.
That heavy, drained feeling. The need to warm up, refuel, rest. The way your body can feel completely wiped out for hours after a swim. Sometimes longer.
What a wetsuit changes
A wetsuit doesn’t remove the cold. But it does change that equation.
It slows heat loss, reduces the demand on your body, and gives you more time before you reach that point where your system is under strain.
It doesn’t make cold water swimming easy. But it makes it less costly.
Why life outside the water matters
And when you start layering that on top of real life, it matters even more.
Because cold tolerance isn’t fixed. It shifts depending on what else your body is dealing with.
Lack of sleep.
Illness.
Stress.
General fatigue.
All of these affect how well your body can regulate temperature and generate heat.
If you’re run down, your ability to respond to the cold is reduced. Your body has less energy available. Even your natural shivering response, which is one of your key defences against the cold, can be delayed.
So the same swim, in the same temperature, can feel completely different depending on what’s going on in the rest of your life.
And I think that’s what I’ve been feeling this winter.
Not that I’ve suddenly become worse at coping with the cold. But that my body is already using so much energy elsewhere. Looking after a toddler. Running on broken sleep. Fighting off constant low-level illness. Just getting through the day.
So when I get into cold water now, it’s not the only demand on my system. It’s just another one.
And at some point, something has to give.
Wetsuit swimming achievements still matter
And this is the part that I think gets lost sometimes.
Because once you start looking at it through that lens of doing it properly, it becomes very easy to dismiss anything that doesn’t fit that model.
But the reality is, there are people doing extraordinary swims in wetsuits. Not easier swims. Not lesser swims. Just different.
Take Caroline Connor, for example.
She’s completed some phenomenal long-distance swims, including the full length of Lake Geneva, over 70 kilometres, in just over 25 hours. She’s also swum the full lengths of Loch Lomond, Loch Ness, and Loch Awe, as well as completing the English Channel.
All in a wetsuit.
Or Scott McCade, who swam Loch Lomond end-to-end and back again.
Around 72 kilometres. Over 31 hours in the water.
Again, not a small swim. Not something made “easy” by a layer of neoprene. Just a different set of challenges.
Of course, there are also more widely known swimmers who have completed groundbreaking wetsuit swims. But these are two people I’ve swum alongside. And I think that matters.
I’ve also known swimmers who have quietly gone out through the winter, week after week, building distance in whatever way works for them. Sometimes skins, sometimes wetsuit. Sometimes changing year to year.
And that matters too, because it shows something important.
That wearing a wetsuit doesn’t remove the challenge. It just changes it.
There is no right way to cold water swim
Coming back to that social media post I shared, and all those comments, what stayed with me wasn’t debate.
It was how many people needed to hear it.
The pressure to do it properly
It’s okay for things to change. It’s okay for your body to feel different. And it’s okay to adapt.
Because somewhere along the way, a lot of us have picked up the idea that we should be able to do this in a certain way.
Stay in longer. Push through. Handle the cold.
And if we can’t, then maybe we’re not doing it properly.
But the more I think about it, the less that makes sense.
Because cold water swimming doesn’t happen in isolation.
It sits alongside everything else in your life.
Your sleep.
Your health.
Your energy.
Your responsibilities.
And all of that changes.
So it makes sense that how you swim might change too.
What actually matters
If wearing a wetsuit means you can stay in the water a little longer, move a little more, enjoy it a bit more, then that matters.
If it means you get to keep showing up through a difficult season, then that matters too.
Because the point isn’t how tough it looks from the outside. It’s whether it works for you.
And maybe that’s what came through most clearly in those comments.
“It’s not cheating, it’s what my body needs right now.”
“Do what gets you into the water and makes you happy in the water.”
There isn’t a right way to do this.
There’s just your way.
If you want to explore this further
If this has resonated with you, and you’re figuring out what works for your body in cold water, I’ve put together a free cold water mini guide to help.
It covers practical tips on preparing for a cold water swim, managing cold water shock, breathing control, acclimatisation, safety, and choosing the right kit for you.
You can download it here: FREE Cold Water Mini Guide
