A crowd flowed under Basel Bridge, so many,
I had not thought heat had undone so many.
— imaginary T.S. Eliot
It was a very warm day in Basel, the genteel Swiss border town, where the Rhine turns suddenly northward to separate France from Germany. Switzerland is a cultural amalgam of both nations, and at this northwest corner flirts equally with each while committing fully to neither. It is in such places where truly local customs can form, sprung from the local milieu, and resisting further export by the uniqueness of the conditions that formed them.
To me, Basel was just a good base from which to access the Swiss hiking trail network for a few days. But on this day, it would be far too hot to hike. I decided to stay within reach of trams and cold beer, and set out across the “Middle Bridge” (Mittlere Brücke) in the early morning, to inspect the Old Town.
Water bodies
As I glanced down to the chilly water below, I noticed a pair of rather chubby men swimming awkwardly with the current. A clever way to beat the heat, I thought — and probably not permitted. Who could recommend swimming in a busy navigational river in the middle of a large city? I admired what I imagined to be their renegade act, and kept walking.
On my next glance down to the water, a pair of lithe young women floated into view, the fluid movements of their supple limbs perhaps a bit too well revealed by my elevated position and the Rhine’s clear water. So maybe this is a thing, I shrugged — but seeing no one else, I continued across the bridge.
I proceeded to visit the most notable corners of the old town, where many tourists’ photographs will surely somewhere attest to my sweat-soaked presence. I returned across the bridge at the height of the day’s heat.
It was then when I realized that the real spectacle had always been here.
By now, what had been a handful of isolated swimmers in the early morning had become a northward migration — an endless train of people, bobbing rapidly along as they floated with the current down the Rhine.
As I looked to the south to see the oncoming crowd, I gradually began to realize that this was not only a thing, but the thing. Viewing the procession for several minutes with no end in sight, I could have believed that half the population of Basel had suddenly dropped everything to madly jump into the river.
I retreated to a nearby grocery for a cold can of beer and a sandwich, and descended to the promenade of the east bank. Concrete ramps and steps extend into the water and several hundred yards along the shore, built to accommodate and encourage access to the Rhine. I sat there for an hour among dozens of locals, watching swimmers climb carefully into the water, achieve buoyancy, and float away.
Returning to my vantage point on the Middle Bridge, the difference between mermaids and frogs came to mind more than once as directly beneath, with uncanny consistency, the ladies gracefully propelled themselves with an effortless flutter of the feet, and the men clumsily paddled and kicked.
Some seemed only partially committed to their status as a swimmer; billed caps, straw hats, and sunglasses seemed no less common in the water than on the street. It almost seemed as if some had simply chosen to get to their destination by taking the river instead of the road.
So what’s with the backpack?
Once having accepted the weirdness of this watery spectacle, I began to focus on the colorful floating sack that almost everyone had brought along.
These round, puffy bags were so brightly colored, so uniform in design, and so universally in use that at first I assumed that they were a sort of safety device, required by the city authorities to legally enter the river. About half of the swimmers I observed did seem to be using it as a flotation aid, often resting their arms or torso on the bag as they paddled along. Others were simply holding on to it, or had attached it to their wrist or their swimsuit, allowing it to tag along freely.
Meet the Wickelfisch
But it was not a flotation aid, nor a safety device. It is called the Wickelfisch. It is a uniquely designed waterproof bag, used to carry your street clothes, shoes, and valuables as you float down the river.
While the “dry bag” is a well-known concept to whitewater rafters and kayakers, the Wickelfisch appears to be a distinct technology. It seems to have been spawned by the unique needs of a population that has come to consider it perfectly normal to step into an urban river and emerge a mile or two downstream. In this situation, one cannot leave one’s dry clothes and personal items on the shore. If you’re a Basel Rhine-swimmer, the swift current will see to it that you will not be returning to where you began. This poses the problem of taking it all with you — and the Wickelfisch is the solution.
Thinking back to my stroll in the old town, I remembered seeing Wickelfisch for sale in so many random places — even in grocery stores — that I began to wonder what they were, well before seeing them in action. Although trademarked, the Wickelfisch is made by a Basel company, and to tourists at least, seems to be synonymous with Basel itself.
Design wise, it is a remarkably simple device. It is a flat, somewhat fish-shaped nylon bag that achieves a watertight seal with seven rolls of the open end, secured with a simple but reliable clasp. Once clasped, it forms a sort of arm loop by which it can be held while in the water.
Their use is not limited to tourists looking for a dip in the Rhine. Although some of the swimmers I observed appeared to be a bit hesitant about getting into the Rhine, most appeared supremely confident, suggesting that this is largely a local practice. According to some reports, it isn’t uncommon to see office workers placing a suit and laptop into a Wickelfisch, as it becomes apparent that they’ve secretly been wearing swimwear for underclothes all day. I can see how casting one’s cares upon the water could be an admirable end to the workday.
According to the city of Basel, flotation aids such as inflatable rafts, inner tubes, and similar equipment are prohibited in the Rhine, save for the Wickelfisch. The swimmers I saw appeared to be in complete agreement, as I saw no evidence of floats or life vests. Spectators are treated to a tasteful procession of buoyant swimmers, free of the garish distraction of excess gear. However, the river must be notoriously hard to police. With no lifeguards on duty, Rhine swimmers participate at their own risk — in more ways than one. When I was on the bridge, a grade-school child ran up to the railing, eagerly climbed up, and jumped more than 30 feet into the river — an obvious safety hazard to swimmers below. Ah, the carefree privileges of innocence!
I find it fascinating that in today’s connected world, there still exist customs and technologies that are unique to a locality, and that show no signs of fading away.
Despite its ubiquity in Basel’s street markets and stores, it seems unlikely that the Wickelfisch will ever find a foothold outside the Basel city limits. The German city of Cologne, for example, insists that swimming in the Rhine is extremely dangerous; and in a summer when Olympic swimmers famously hesitated to compete in the Seine, it seems that there are a limited number of places where river swimming can become popular. It requires the unique combination of a clean river, a strong but safe current, and — most importantly — a population eager to be swept away by both.
Basel’s upstream position on the Rhine gives it significant advantage in terms of cleanliness and river traffic, but its polyglot population is the real key. It’s just large enough, and just weird enough, to give critical mass to a custom that has come to define the city — and which depends on both the local geography, and the character of its own people, to sustain it.
Article and photos Copyright 2024.
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