“I Took a Breath” – Leszek Naziemiec on the film “Ujście”

A few years ago, Leszek Naziemiec tested the limits of his endurance in cold water. Today, he’s more interested in mindfulness, connecting with the wilderness, and the ability to tell himself, “Enough,” than in setting new records. The documentary *Ujście*, directed by Tomasz Woźniczka and which just premiered, is therefore not merely a story about extreme swimming. It is also a record of transformation—from the need to push beyond one’s limits to the acceptance of one’s own limitations, from athletic ambition to maturity and a moment to catch one’s breath.

Agnieszka Hobot: The film was in the works for several years, and its premiere coincided with a time when your passion for sports competition and the need to take on new extreme challenges were beginning to fade. Is *Ujście* a portrait of the birth of a great passion, or rather a record of the end of a certain stage in your life?

Leszek Naziemiec: It’s true, I no longer feel the need to prove my competence. I don’t have to be the best or prove that I can endure more than others. I’m also not interested in expeditions that lead to self-destruction, extreme exhaustion, or loss of control over my body. I don’t think I’ve ever been disturbed enough to consistently pursue that path.

At first, it was important for me to overcome my fears and weaknesses, but from the very beginning, I was also fascinated by something else—that special immersion in nature. That feeling has stayed with me. I still really enjoy swimming along beautiful, wild routes, even in winter. In the summer, that might mean twelve or fourteen hours in the water, but even one hour can be just as rewarding. Duration is no longer the primary measure of the quality of the experience for me.

I remember one of my first 24-hour swimming challenges. I think it was my third one. I got out of the water after ten kilometers because I simply started to get bored. That was an important sign. I realized that simply covering the distance isn’t enough if my curiosity fades and I lose touch with the place.

At the start of work on the film, Tomek Woźniczka, the director, did indeed say that he was a few years too late with his camera. The winters weren’t as harsh and snowy anymore, and almost our entire kayaking team was beginning to head in a slightly different direction. Perhaps, however, it is precisely this change that is most interesting. *The Estuary* does not merely depict passion at its most intense, but also the moment when a person begins to understand differently what he has been doing for years. And perhaps that is precisely what will prove to be the film’s strength.

A.H.: In the film, your body is screaming “no” with every sense, yet you keep going anyway. Where is the line between courage and consciously pushing your own limits, and a certain kind of violence against your own body?

L.N.: This kind of violence must be avoided. Unfortunately, it happens quite often in the world of extreme sports. It can be a consequence of the athletes’ psychological issues, but also of pressure from those around them and from fans. People encourage you to make ever-greater sacrifices, they glorify your successes, and at the same time, they may watch your accident, fall, or failure with great intensity. At a certain point, it’s no longer about the athlete’s experience—it becomes a spectacle. Of course, genuine relationships and ordinary friendships can coexist alongside this—not all support amounts to pressure.

I should also clarify that your senses don’t always say “no.” This is especially true for beginners and intermediate swimmers. Many experienced swimmers are able to function relatively comfortably from the moment they enter cold water. This requires many years of gradual adaptation, and likely some natural predisposition as well.

Paradoxically, the bigger problem may not be entering the icy water itself, but deciding to get out of it. You have to be able to tell yourself: enough is enough. There’s no point in pushing your body to the point where you’re faced with a long and exhausting battle against hypothermia every single time.

Winter swimming should be, above all, about discovering your own body, patiently developing your ability to adapt, and building a connection with nature. I try to follow the principle of pleasure, not suffering. Of course, sometimes you have to push yourself, accept temporary discomfort, and put in a greater effort. However, this shouldn’t mean ignoring the signals your body sends you.

A.H.: Over the years, you’ve talked about your expeditions yourself. In *Ujście*, you entrusted that story to a director and a camera. Did you see on screen a person you hadn’t recognized in yourself before, or an image of yourself with which you disagree?

L.N.: It’s hard for me to speak definitively about this film. I’m too close to the whole story, and working on it took a very long time. *Ujście* is a true story, but at the same time it remains Tomek’s artistic creation. It’s his perspective, his choice of images, rhythm, and meanings.

I can say that I really enjoy looking at the paintings he creates. Being the protagonist of his film is a great honor for me. I also feel that I’ve learned a lot from our collaboration. I’ve met new people, and my circle of friends has grown. So the process of making the film turned out to be just as important as the final result.

This was an unusual experience for me, because I hardly ever watch movies and I don’t like being filmed. I have a certain trauma in this regard dating back to the early ’90s. Back then, I came to the conclusion that cinema wasn’t for me, and for a long time I wasn’t really interested in it at all. Now that’s starting to change a bit. Perhaps it is precisely thanks to *Ujście* that I am learning to view a film not only as a finished work, but also as a way of connecting with another person. I am grateful for that.

A.H.: The film depicts suffering and risk in a very beautiful, poetic way. Were you concerned that the film’s aesthetic might romanticize extreme swimming and encourage people who don’t understand the risks involved to try it themselves?

L.N.: May this film encourage people to take up wild and winter swimming—but only if it’s practiced slowly, regularly, and patiently. It’s not about jumping into freezing water on a whim or copying someone else’s feats. Adaptation takes time, and getting to know your own reactions should happen gradually.

If someone approaches this responsibly, they may discover something truly important. Cold water can change the way you perceive your own body and your surroundings. Nature ceases to be mere decoration, a backdrop for activities, or a mechanism that humans can manage at will. It becomes a direct, powerful experience that is hard to ignore.

A single gust of cool wind can dispel the modern vision of desacralized nature. In the water, it quickly becomes clear that we do not stand above it. We are part of it and subject to its changes. For me, this—and not heroism or suffering—is the most important experience associated with swimming.

A.H.: During your expeditions, you observed receding glaciers, drought in the Lake Titicaca region, wildfires in Alaska, and changes taking place in the Vistula and Oder rivers. How do you reconcile the need to visit such places and document their changes with the fact that expedition tourism itself puts pressure on the environment?

L.N.: I can’t honestly reconcile these two things. I don’t want to pretend that my travels leave no trace or that the mere fact of writing about nature automatically justifies the costs associated with reaching remote places. At the same time, I can’t completely give up traveling.

I try, at the very least, to remain aware of this contradiction. I try in various ways to make up for the damage I cause, even though I know that not everything can be balanced out this way. It’s also important to me that travel isn’t just about consuming scenery or collecting more places to visit.

However, I don’t have a ready answer or a convenient excuse. Perhaps, over time, I’ll make wiser decisions, travel less often, and do so more thoughtfully and in a way that’s less harmful to the environment. For now, I can honestly admit that I remain part of the problem I’m observing.

A.H.: The title *Ujście* has many meanings: a river’s mouth, a way out of a situation, the release of pent-up emotions. What has this film become an outlet for you—athletic ambition, a need to connect with nature, a personal crisis, or perhaps your previous way of thinking about yourself?

L.N.: A friend of mine, the painter Grażyna Smalej—I encourage you to take a look at her paintings—has long been reflecting on the word “mouth.” She pointed out that in many languages, the words for “mouth” and “outlet” are the same or very similar. It’s an interesting connection because it links a river to the body, flow to breath, and landscape to speech.

For me, the title also has a very literal meaning. I currently live in the complex estuary system of the Oder River. So I am close to the place where the river splits, mixes with other bodies of water, and gradually loses its distinct form.

However, I can also view this release in a physical and personal way. My athletic and non-athletic ambitions have finally found an outlet. The balloon, overinflated with excessive pressure, simply deflated. I no longer have to constantly strain myself, compete, or prove anything.

I took a breath. I’ve come of age.

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Main photo: Piotr Sadurski