I went in the water yesterday, a little slower than the day before, slower still than July when it was hot, hot, hot. The water now is not. A stiff breeze made for an embarrassing race to my towel to dry off, if anyone was watching. No one was.
I know people who won’t go in the water until August--the bathwater set. This is the same bunch who won’t think of getting wet after Labor Day. Their opportunity for a romp in Nantucket Sound or Cape Cod Bay represents a narrow window indeed.
Then there are the polar bears; we all know some. They take the plunge through February and beyond, making sure the rest of us know that God did not grant them an extra layer of subcutaneous fat. They make it happen on true grit. Grrr!! Some even boast of their icy adventures on social media, a not-so subtle dig at the rest of us for our lack of courage.
I find myself, at 70 years old, stuck between the two extremes—the bathwater set and the bears--and I’m not sure I want to I want to go into the water with either one. I’ll go it alone , thanks, and until I can’t stand it. When the numbness sets in as soon as my toe goes in, I’m done. And, honestly, I’m not sure why I even go that far.
I have no audience, no chance for anyone to testify to how tough and unafraid I am. There is some reward when I get back to the cottage.
``How was it?’’ my wife will ask.
``Just fine,’’ I’ll say with the nonchalance of any true tidal hero determined to downplay his bravery. ``Of course you don’t want to stay in very long, not this time of year.’’
``I don’t know how you do it,’’ she’ll say, with an admiration that never gets old.
I have one brother who has organized a couple polar plunges for the five brothers, and he’ll occasionally post a video of his going-in up on the North Shore where the water runs chillier and therefore time spent in the surf more laudable. Telling him when I do go in these days can make me feel good.
Still, praise is hardly motivation enough. Let me try to explain.
I don’t go in every day. I try for at least a few times a week because, as strange as this might sound, not going in makes me feel like the dinner guest who didn’t clean his plate.
Mine is a short walk to the Atlantic from a cozy little cottage, and my health is good enough to make that I can do this, and those factors exist for so many reasons that boil down to luck or chance. And that makes me grateful. To turn my back on a swim, even when it’s not the easiest thing to do, feels like ingratitude.
Besides, when all is said and done, it’s just a wonderful if shivery experience to tuck into memory. When I’m back over the bridge for the colder months, pulling extra blankets, shoveling snow and whatever else needs tending, I can smile and think of the times I took the plunge at the farthest edge of the season in water that fills an ocean that makes everything else here on the Cape possible.
