Christmas Calendar Countdown – Day 22

Theme: Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships

December 22, 2015 – 3 days to Christmas

Today’s Story: Les Dolphins Argentés

Monique stood at her kitchen window on Christmas morning. It was 9:47 AM. The Biarritz Bain de Noël—the traditional Christmas Day Dip in the Atlantic Ocean organised by Les Ours Blancs, would start at 10:30 at the Grande Plage. She has done it every year for twenty-three years, always with Suzanne, her best friend since they were sixteen years old.

This year, Suzanne would be there. Monique would not.

Her phone sat on the counter, silent as it had been for three months. Three months since the argument that had started as a political disagreement and exploded into forty years of accumulated grievances. Things said that couldn’t be unsaid. Apologies attempted and rejected. Silence that had hardened into something unpalatable.

Monique had called twice after that terrible night in September. Left messages. Texted. Nothing back. Forty years of friendship—birthdays, weddings, the births of children, the deaths of parents, Christmas Day swims—ended. Just… ended.

Her doorbell rang.

Amélie stood there wearing a wetsuit and a Christmas-themed swim cap with reindeer antlers.

“Non,” Monique said.

“Si,” Amélie replied.

“I can’t—Suzanne will be there—”

“So? The beach is big enough for both of you.”

“I don’t know anyone in your group—”

“You know me. Come. We have extra wetsuits if you need one, though Martine swims in just her swimming costume, she claims it ‘builds character.’ Martine is crackers. You’ll like her.”

On the Grande Plage, fifty people stood shivering on the wet sand, neoprene clinging to their skin, breath puffing white into the salt air, swim caps pulled low over ears already aching from the wind, all of them wearing the same stubborn, faintly unhinged expression of people who had voluntarily chosen to step into freezing water on Christmas morning.

Les Dauphins Argentées—the Silver Dolphins—Amélie’s group of older women who swam year-round, rain or shine, in the Bay of Biscay, gathered together on one side of the beach, heads close, voices low. Amélie, whom Monique had met three months earlier in a bookshop, had somehow sensed the weight of grief Monique was lugging around. Without comment or ceremony, she had invited Monique for coffee and mentioned the swimming group with the offhand ease of someone proposing mild treason.

“This is Monique, everyone,” Amélie announced to the assembled women.

A woman in her seventies wearing a Santa hat over her swim cap waved. “I’m Martine. I’m the crazy one Amélie would have mentioned. And this is Colette, Lucy, Céline, Patricia, Corinne, Nina…etc.”

They gathered at the water’s edge. The ocean was steel-grey, churning, the kind of sea that looked like it had reservations about humans entering it. The beach smelled of salt and seaweed, and it had the biting coldness of December air.

“Ready?” Amélie asked.

“No.”

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

They walked into the water as a group—fifteen women entering the Atlantic on Christmas morning because they’d decided, individually and collectively, that this was a reasonable thing to do.

The cold hit like a physical blow. Not gradually—immediately, brutally, overwhelmingly. Monique gasped, her body screaming that this was a mistake, that it was not designed for this, that she should get out NOW and never do something this stupid again.

“Keep moving!” Martine shouted from ahead, already waist-deep.

Monique kept moving. The cold became something else—not comfortable, never comfortable, but manageable. Her body adjusting, adrenaline surging, the particular clarity that comes from being so cold you can’t think about anything except being cold.

They swam. Not far—maybe fifty meters out, parallel to the beach—but in water that was actively hostile, waves rolling through, the undertow pulling, the cold seeping into their bones.

Beside her, Amélie swam with the easy confidence of someone who’d been doing this for years. “You’re doing great!”

“I’m freezing!”

Amélie laughed—actually laughed. “How’s your head?”

“What?”

“Your head. Full of thoughts about Suzanne?”

Monique realised it wasn’t. Her brain was entirely occupied with: cold, swim, cold, waves, cold, why did I agree to this, yet again, cold.

“No,” she admitted.

“Exactly. Cold water is very purifying. Empties your head of everything except survival. Very therapeutic. Also possibly dangerous but mostly therapeutic.”

They swam for fifteen minutes—an eternity—then headed back. The exit was harder than the entry, legs shaking, body exhausted, but Monique made it to shore where someone had lit a bonfire (how? when? who brings wood to a beach on Christmas morning?) and other women were appearing with thermoses of vin chaud and blankets and the particular kindness of a community that swims together in hostile water.

Colette handed Monique mulled wine that tasted like cinnamon and bitter orange. “How do you feel?”

“Alive. Terrified. Proud?”

“Good. So you’ll be back next week?”

“I didn’t say—”

“You will. It’s addictive. Also, we’re excellent company.”

Martine appeared, still in just her costume, skin red from the cold, looking delighted. “See? Character building. You’ve more character now than you had this morning. Objective improvement.”

They stood around the bonfire, fifteen women in various states of wetsuit removal, drinking wine that was too hot and too spiced but perfect, watching the waves. The smell of wood smoke mixed with salt air. Someone started singing—”Petit Papa Noël“—and everyone joined in, voices rough from cold but sincere.

Monique looked down the beach. Could see another group gathering around their own bonfire. Les Ours Blancs. Suzanne would be there. Warming up. Maybe thinking about Monique. Maybe not.

The grief hit suddenly—unexpected, overwhelming. Forty years. Gone. The friend who’d known her since she was sixteen. Who’d been at her wedding. Who’d helped raise her children. Who’d swum beside her every Christmas morning for two decades. Gone.

Amélie appeared beside her, following her gaze.

“She’s there. Suzanne. Swimming with her group.”

“I know.” Amélie didn’t offer platitudes. Didn’t say it would heal, or time would help, or they’d reconcile. Just stood there, present. “Some friendships end. Even forty-year-old ones. It’s awful, but it’s real, so you’re allowed to grieve your loss.”

“I don’t know how to do Christmas without her.”

“You do it like you just did—badly, scared, supported by people who barely know you but who care anyway.” Amélie gestured at the Dolphins. “We’re not her. We won’t replace her. But we’re here. Every week, every Christmas, every Tuesday morning at dawn. You in?”

Monique thought about the cold water. The clarity of it. The way it had emptied her head of everything except immediate survival. The women around the fire who’d welcomed her without question, who’d handed her wine and blankets and acceptance.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m in.”

“Good. Next week, 7 AM. Bring your own wetsuit if you have one.”

Her phone buzzed. For one wild moment, she thought: Suzanne.

It wasn’t. It was Colette: Welcome to Les Dauphins Argentés. See you Tuesday, 7 AM. Bring coffee.

Then Martine: You survived! See you Tuesday. Don’t be late!

Then three other women she’d barely spoken to, all welcoming her, all assuming she’d return, all treating her like she already belonged.

Amélie sat beside her on the sand. “You okay?”

“No. But I will be.”

Monique looked at the beach where Suzanne was, where a Christmas tradition had died.

Her phone stayed silent. Suzanne didn’t call. Maybe never would again.

Some friendships end.

Other friendships begin. In bookshops. Around bonfires. In freezing water on Christmas mornings.

The Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships Masterplan

In a world filled with distractions, one of the most meaningful gifts you can offer a friend is your full presence. Being present isn’t about doing or saying the “right” thing—it’s about showing up fully, with an open heart and undivided attention.

When you’re truly present, you create a safe space for your friend to share their thoughts, fears, and joys. It’s in these moments of deep connection that friendships grow stronger. This holiday season, give the gift of your presence. Turn off your phone, silence the noise, and simply be there.

Presence is also a gift you can give yourself. When you slow down and embrace the moment, you’ll find clarity and peace, even amid life’s transitions.

When a long friendship ends catastrophically, reach out to new connections instead of isolating in your grief—and say yes when someone invites you to do something uncomfortable and community-based. Join the swimming group, the book club, the thing that requires showing up physically and repeatedly among people who aren’t your ex-friend. Worst case scenario: You’re uncomfortable around strangers while grieving, the ocean is terrible, and you still miss the friend you lost. Best case scenario: Your new friend refuses to let you spend Christmas alone crying, drags you to a cold water swimming group of older women who voluntarily enter hostile Atlantic water on Christmas morning, and you discover that while some friendships end forever and it’s awful and you’re allowed to grieve, other friendships begin in their place—different friendships, ones built on showing up week after week in neoprene among women who hand you mulled wine and belonging without requiring you to explain your loss. You learn that grief doesn’t disappear but it becomes manageable when you’re too cold to think about anything except survival, that community isn’t a replacement for what you lost but it’s what keeps you alive anyway, and that sometimes the only way to survive the end of one chapter is to literally swim into the next one, badly and scared and supported by Silver Dolphins who decided you were worth keeping warm.

What does being present mean to you? How can you practice presence in your friendships this season?

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