The Cold Water Dip - A Short Story

Written by Dennis Hawkins-Bogle - Campbell River Bluetits

 

We gather on the beach around a small fire. Mary has her Tim’s, Jeanette has her mug, Allen has his thermos. “Good morning,” is met by, “good morning,” which is met by, “nice fire,” which is met by, “cold eh?” which is met by, “isn’t the snow lovely?” which is met by, “are we really doing this?” which is met by giggles and laughter. 

“Yes, we’re doing this,” I announce, and glancing at my phone, “in three minutes.”

“Oh jees,” Patty quips, “do I have to?” 

 

I stick out my tongue to catch a snow flake and notice a flock of seagulls on the beach a short distance away, almost camouflaged by the blanket of white and the falling snow, chatting amongst themselves, seemingly oblivious to the seven of us huddled a short distance away. I hear a guttural caw and see a crow swoop overhead. I glance at the water, it is still. Off in the distance a tug is plying in front of Quadra Island with a log boom in tow. The gulls lift off, whistling and squawking as they go. I glance at my phone. 

 

“Last one in is the last one in,” I announce as I remove my dry robe and drape it over a snow covered log. I pull my neoprene gloves tight over my fingers. I walk toward the water. My neoprene booties make the same sound my winter boots did when I was a child, crunch, crunch, crunch on the newly fallen snow. I pause at the water’s edge, exhale, and think to myself, ‘it is a good day; it’s cold, it’s snowing, we’re socked in, cocooned, safe.’ I take a step, followed by another, followed by another.

It is cold, very cold. I shiver. I wince. I hold my elbows tight against my rib cage. I struggle to catch my breath. As the water swirls around my chest the full effects of the cold shock takes hold. I try to fend-off the shivers and deepen my breath. I keep walking until the water is swirling around my neck, and then I walk a bit more. I bob, my toes barely touching the bottom, my hands treading to maintain my balance and keep my head above water. There are no distractions, no thoughts competing for my attention. 

 

“Bloody cold,” Rita says.

“Don’t say the C-word,” says Mary.

“Not warm,” bellows Rita with a hearty laugh.

“Not warm at all,” a few voices chime in, “bloody not warm.”

“What’s the temp?” someone asks?

“Not warm,” Rita quips.

“Nine point five,” Mary answers, “the same as yesterday.”

“What’d I tell ya?” Rita snaps.

“Did anyone check the air temp before we got in?” asks another.

“Minus three,” she says, “not warm, bloody not warm.”

“What’d I tell ya?” Rita snorts with laughter.

 

I am buoyed by the sea, comforted, supported. It makes me feel alive. The cold triggers my endocrine system to pump endorphins throughout my body. My nervous system and every cell becomes flooded with dopamine and serotonin and norepinephrine. A feeling of calm comes over me, the aches and pains disappear, my breath becomes long and deep, my mind settles. I float, embracing the cold, letting it heal me.

 

“Look out for that seagull,” Jeanette announces. We look up and see a gull soaring overhead.

“Take cover,” Patty yells.

“It better not poop on me,” Mary replies, “today was my hair washing day and I don’t want to have to wash it again.”

“You’re lucky,” I tell her, “it flew by.”

“It looks like it is circling back,” says Patty with a snicker, “trying to get a better aim. Take cover everyone.”

“You guys are all crazy,” Rita laments.

“It takes one to know one,” Jeanette says.

“This dipping is for the birds,” Mary announces.

“The only ones here today are the bird brains,” Patty says with a chuckle.

“We’re the hardened ones,” I remind them.

 

“That’s eight minutes,” Mary says, “I’m flying the coop.”

“Time to flock off,” Patty says as she follows behind Mary.

“I’m out,” the others chime in.

“Me too,” I say as I turn and join the others.

 

And en masse we trudge our red bodies out of the water and into the cold air and begin the arduous task of removing our swim suits, drying our bodies, and putting our clothes on. It’s a harrowing task trying not to flash the folks driving by or the walkers who stare at us, mesmerized by the sight of grown-ass adults bobbing in the ocean in the middle of a snow storm on a cold day in January. But the reality is, we’ve dressed and undressed on this beach, in small groups, in large groups, early mornings watching the sun rise, midday, in the evening under the full moon, in rain, snow, and wind storms, in front of families celebrating birthdays, in front of teenagers huddled around their fire, in front of groups of people enjoying the beach, in front of solitaire walkers ambling in search of treasures, and we just don’t care anymore if bits of our bodies fall out for a passerby to see.

“It’s Melva’s birthday tomorrow,” says Patty, “I’m going to bring a cake.”

“I’ve got some party hats from my grandson’s birthday, I’ll bring them,” says Rita.

“I’ll build a fire,” says Allan.

“What time?” I ask.

“Geenie posted for 11.”

“Perfect,” I say. 

“Sounds like a party, I’m in,” says Jeanette.

“Me too,” says Mary.

“See you tomorrow,” is met by, “see you tomorrow,” which is met by “take care,” which is met by, “have a good day,” which is met by, “thanks for the fire, Allan,” which is met by, “see you next time,” which is met by, “I love you guys.”

We plunge for different reasons. I do it to find a sense of calm, mindfulness, and grace. I do it to treat the niggling inflammation that has seeped into my body. I do it because I like the folks who also do it. Geenie does it to ease the depression. Jeanette does it because it makes her feel good. Melva does it because it helps her with his hips and legs. Allan does it to moderate bouts of anxiety, “it calms me right down,” he says. Mary says it helps her relieve the trauma that impacts her. Rita does it because it gets her out of the house and with people. Patty does it because, as she says, “this feels so damn good.”

I miss the ocean if I stay away for too long. I miss the camaraderie, the waves, the gulls, the crows, the tugs. I miss the off chance of seeing a seal, or sea lion, or the fluke or spray of a humpback whale. I miss the first lap of cold water against my skin. I miss the calm that comes over me. I miss sensing myself at my deepest level, focused only on the present moment. I miss being buoyed, floating, breathing, and feeling alive. I miss the euphoria, the joy, the excitement. 

I’m going tomorrow. I want to celebrate Melva. I want to wear a birthday hat in the water and eat birthday cake in my dry robe around a small fire. I want to laugh out loud at the silliness. I want to connect with the people. I want to feel good.