My feet moved to the edge. The air was cold, sharp in my throat. Scared eyes looked down; my heart raced. I knew I had to jump, but couldn’t believe I was about to actually do it. “Count to three, then just let go,” said a stranger in line behind me. I counted to five. And a half. Then I did it; I just let go. I fell.
It was freezing. The plummet lasted half an hour, or maybe half a second, I can’t be sure, time bends when you’re free falling. When you leap with both feet, literally, you completely surrender to the moment — to time and space and the laws of physics. The only influence you have is the momentum with which you jumped. And then … you hit the frigid waters of a polar plunge. You’ve never been more awake.
If you were to ask me, “When’s the last time you went for a swim?” I’d have to take a minute and think about it. But if you ask, “When’s the last time you went for a polar plunge?” I’d respond, “December 21, 1987. UMC Winter Retreat, Camp Inaba, Pennsylvania.” A polar plunge is something you remember, even 30 years later, especially 30 years later. It’s crazy. I can’t believe I jumped. I’m so glad that I did.
I still remember the friends who were there that day, all blue lipped and teeth chattering. I remember hot cider and warm towels, the clean crisp smell of the winter wind, and the sound laughter makes when it bounces off of walls and trees and returns to you. It now exists as one of those memories I hope to recreate one day, if not for me, then for my kids.
January 4, do yourself a favor. Take the plunge. Do it. Bring the kids. It will be painfully cold. You will shiver from your core. You will laugh like a maniac. You will scream like a teenager in a horror movie. And so will your dad, so bring him too. Make January 4 a day you will remember 30 years from now.
