SOMEWHERE off the west coast of Scotland, on a mid-November weekday, a pale figure stumbled ever sea-ward. Was it a topless White Walker? Or the final indignity of Reginald Perrin? Of course not. It was a pasty Glaswegian with no shirt and less shame, finally finding freedom in the Firth of Clyde.

Growing up riddled with anxiety means inevitably missing out on a whole host of important rites of passage.

Seriously, I’m surprised I ever found my way from one corridor to the next. There were no bike-shed moments or drunken disgraces, and my only gap year was a heavily-medicated period in my twenties from which my memories are as muddied as my memories.

At the time, I can’t imagine I really noticed the absence; I mean, privilege is only felt by its loss, right? But at the other side of the situation, it’s difficult to reflect and not be vaguely disappointed by all the experiences I turned my back on when I was too affronted to face them.

This week then, with more rhyme than reason, I decided to expose myself to the elements and finally tuck one of those experiences under my non-existent belt. The practice of skinny-dipping has been around ever since birthdays had suits, and has never really lost its popularity, with its proponents citing reduced stress and increased self esteem among its benefits. Only a few months ago, the Great British Skinny Dip saw an estimated 1,000 bodies take to the water over a weekend with barely a stitch between them. And as wild swimming and naturism have become ever more prevalent, no longer is bathing in the buff only for the fringes of society. We fringeless are welcome to shed our suits and take part too. And as someone who’ll do pretty much anything to avoid laundry, I probably should have found my way to this particular hobby many cycles before now.

I’ll admit it wasn’t easy to pinpoint a body of water in our fair land that would be amenable to watering this body of a Wednesday afternoon. Of course, there are naturist clubs and nudist beaches across the country that already have such minutiae sussed out but, for me, this particular adventure wasn’t about joining in, it was about hanging out. With no map though of where one can safely skip the light fandango without fear of a legal spanking, it took no less than three tries to find a suitably situated spot. I’m all for freedom of beach but I’m not sure I could stay afloat with the weight of an innocent dog-walker’s heart condition on my conscience.

Parking up eventually on the Ayrshire coast at a ill-considered point between high tide and low, I spent longer than advisable considering my life choices before gritting everything that could be gritted – and some things I never knew could – yanking off my man-made fibres and strutting what God gave me. Fine, strutting perhaps paints more of a Bo Derek picture than was actually on display, but forgive me for trying to protect your mental gallery.

While my body has been big on many things throughout its life, confidence has never really been one of them. Sure, there have been moments over the years in which the mirror was a glass worth looking in, but those were only moments, mind, and I’d deny them if they ever came calling. So baring my whole to Mother Earth and expecting her not to take the nip felt like a real abuse of her good nature. That first spray of saltwater against my legs reminded me just what life is: colder than you think you can handle but exhilarating when you realise you can. Bolstered by a heady mix of adrenaline and hysteria, I waded ever further, bracing as each swell clutched at greater volumes of my exposed skin. I opened my arms to the Firth, no longer aware of what was behind me, no longer afraid of what was in front. There was only me and the breaking currents, in all our relative glory.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t quite in keeping with the spirit of the skinny-dip for my feet to be clinging to size four ballet pumps all the way into the water. But the feeling of sand and other sea sundries between my toes has never really floated my flotsam, and I reckoned at least on this one I was allowed the benefit of a little protection. The sea and I, you see, have never exactly been friends; I’d suggest acquaintances, but I’m afraid I’d be accused of exaggeration. We’re happy to wave to each other in our own homonymic way but beyond that we’ve drifted apart. Our friendship as diluted as it is though, I still should have known that Poseidon’s posse wouldn’t stand for anything less than a full scud scenario. I can’t pinpoint the precise moment that my shoes were lost to the currents, but I emerged from the depths barer than the average smart, with a new badge of honour pinned directly to my chest.

Exact location of adventure undisclosed to protect the integrity of the neighbourhood.