A plunge like no other

The day started as many of my days off do: I woke up late and got some breakfast with a friend. While at breakfast, I was reminded of an abnormal commitment I made to meet the frigid waters of the Flathead Lake during annual Polar Bear Plunge extravaganza.

My dad believes that ever since a visit to West Virginia five months ago, I am keen on staring death in the face, and jump at any opportunity to do so.

Im not sure if Im eager to accept an invitation the Grim Reaper may present to me, but Im certainly sure that I’m not limited to the mundane by a fear of his lurking presence.

To my dads account, this unabashed intrigue with a dare or a new adventure first presented itself while visiting my uncle Joe Hoover in West Virginia. We took a pontoon boat onto Sutton Lake for a day and as our loungeful swimming session was coming to a close Joe had one last spot to show us. It was a cliff about 40 feet high, which Joe promptly encouraged me to jump off.

I had little inhibitions to limit me, and a strong desire to experience all the splendor of the warm lake. I quickly made my way up the mountain, and onto the cliff - where I proceeded to take the plunge. I incurred several bruises from subsequent jumps, but it was all in good fun and I was able to grab a new memory from the goody bag of life.

This attitude of thrill seeking has stayed with me since my endearing frolic in the backcountry of West Virginia, and unveiled itself amidst fellow enthusiasts Thursday morning in the icy waters of Flathead Lake.

I threw on some tight, thin clothes and wrapped my new puppy Nell in a fluffy blanket before making my way to the deadly waters of the lake. The turnout was large, and the parking spaces few.

I parked a couple blocks away from Riverside Park, and made the delicate trek to the lake in my un-insulated leather dress shoes. They had no traction and limited my movement on the icy hill leading to the lake, and resigned me to a position behind the others at the onset of the plunge - for fear of being pushed down.

I live on the lake, and have never thought of swimming in it during such weather. A little over a month ago I was challenged to take the plunge, gladly accepted the offer and with the help of a fearless entourage I welcomed the new year with a scream heard from the bitter winter water.

As the signal for entrance into the burning liquid was made, I heard shrieks and saw running. I followed the pack taking necessary precautions to keep my balance while making my way through the sea of people and into deeper waters.

The water was at my knees when one of my worst fears latched onto my arm. It was a lady who was apparently in cold-induced shock. She kept repeating the phrase “This is great.” I asked if she was all right. I only had a limited period of time in the water and firemen - only a few feet away - were nearby to help if needed.

After passing the hysterical woman, I knew time was now a pressing element in my undertaking and made my way to the outskirts of the pack where deeper water met me.

Growing up in Florida and Michigan, I have always been drawn to large bodies of water. There’s a peace that comes over me when I’m swimming, wrapped in the buoyancy of water gently cradling my flesh.

I felt the same childlike happiness when I first submerged myself in the water Thursday morning. Swimming competitively for a number of years, I was glad to be back in the water and I smiled at the water’s familiar weightlessness.

Just as I smiled, I let out a loud howl, came to my feet and was instantly transformed into a lunatic with only one thought.

It was as though a switch had been flipped in my mind, and all I could think about was escaping the mind-numbing water that found its way into my veins and now coursed through my limbs and organs. I have a feeling cold water is similar in some ways to lightning, but never would have thought so before this.

It was a delirious sort of pain, one that shut down all thoughts not pertinent to self-preservation and subsequent survival.

After making my way out of the potentially tragic water and up the red fleshed, towel-clad participants lining the bank, I found my own towel and bewildered puppy.

I hugged her, she licked me. I had a moment of semi-sanity. . . short-lived by the realization of a lack of circulation to my lower extremities. My feet were in the beginning stages of frostbite and, as I hadn’t brought an extra pair of shoes and my car was parked a good distance away, I began to entertain a pressing concern of a footless life.

I made my way up the steep hill, yelling at my friend to hurry, as she did her best to carry the ignorant pup behind me. I was a good 15 yards ahead of her throughout our ascension to my car, all the while puffing cold air while rambling about my treasured toes’ demise.

We made it to my car, soon my house, and without a moments interruption I hurled myself into the bathroom and ran hot water. I came out of the shower exhausted but invigorated. I thought my friend was acting peculiarly mellow.

I went on and on about the cold water and how much I loved it. She dared me to go for another dip in our backyard . . . I declined.