Flirting With Hypothermia, Part 3 - When the Water Only Hurts

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

I made it.

I made it to the lowest temperature the water will be this winter.

I’m damn proud of myself for that. Of course, I am. 39° is no small feat. Especially in the absence of neoprene.

Bathing suit, water shoes, swim cap with or without goggles – that has been my go-to for these swims.

When I started doing this, I wasn’t sure I would be able to go all winter.

Cold water swimming is a different animal once the water dipped below the 50° mark. Once the water falls down into the 40’s, it hurts. Like a lot.

I stay in for about 20 minutes when the water was in the upper 40’s, and about 15 when the water was in the lower 40’s.

Then it fell to 39.

From getting in to my waist to dipping my hands to fully submerging to swimming to getting out of the river, I stay in that water for anywhere from 8-11 minutes, and I’ve done that at least 3 times.

Except for adding a swim cap to keep my hair dry enough and keeping my head and face out of the water most of the time (no brain freeze), I made no other change to my routine other than staying in for shorter swims.

I’m impatient for the water to hit the 50° mark again. The water is starting to go up, but it’ll be a while before it’s in the 50’s.

There is no pleasure at the edge of this pain.

The best I can hope for is enough numbness to make the hurt tolerable. I can only acclimate so far to water this cold.

My swim buddy handles the water differently than I do. She rushes in, fully submerges, and shrieks as she stands waist deep and waits for me.

I still do the walk. I stop at my waist and wait for the torment to become bearable.

Cold burns.

How odd is it that the polar opposite of hot burns as much, yet without frying your flesh?

The lower half of my body – legs, hips, and waist – feel the sharp pricking of invisible pins and needles. My bathing suit provides some layer of relief for my pelvis, but not much.

It hurts so bad that I scream “WHY?! Why am I doing this?!”

As much as I’ve heard and read that cold-water swimming is good for me; at this point, I’m in it for the ego probably more than my physical and mental health.

Sometimes I’m tempted to get out. But I’m already here. Besides I can’t lose face with my swim buddy, and it’s only 10 minutes of torture.

I grit my teeth until the pain is tolerable and my legs are almost numb.

Then I thrust my hands in. Of course, I scream again.

I can feel my heart pounding from the stress and fear of it all. This is completely counter-intuitive for modern day humans accustomed to the easy comfort of a thermostat.

I struggle to regulate my breathing and my hands hurt like hell.

Finally, the pain is tolerable. I psych myself up to go under. Then I start swimming.

My breath comes in short gasps and all I can say is: goddammit motherfucker shit this sucks oh fuck Fuck FUCK!!!

The water burns at the edge of my neck between water and air. Sometimes I submerge to give myself some relief. I know it’s bad when I have to go into the cold water to rid myself of the pain at the edge of water and air.

My swim buddy is flailing and shrieking a few strokes away. We’re in this together, yet alone. We are each immersed in our own relationship with endurance of something so wretchedly uncomfortable.

I’m counting strokes to determine how many minutes I have to keep doing this. Counting distracts me.

Breaststroke is agonizing, so I switch to side-stroke. I don’t know why that gives me relief from the agonizing numb. Maybe it’s because I have to switch sides and that small change makes it somewhat bearable.

Shit goddammit shit fucking FUCK!!!

My swim buddy and I screech and holler and laugh.

I submerge fully again, and the gesture is bizarrely soothing.

When the water is this cold, there is no workout. I can’t swim as far or as fast in this temperature as I could before. My hands never fully get used to the stinging pain, and they stiffen quickly.

I never reach an easy breathing pattern. There is no euphoria while in the water. That comes later during the rewarming.

At least that’s the way it works for me.

At last, we’ve done this long enough and it’s time to get out of the river.

We’re more conservative and careful in water this cold. We don’t stay in so long, and I don’t feel like I’m tripping on mushrooms when I get out. I’m sure I would if I stayed in 5-10 minutes longer.

But this water could kill.

So the magic mushroom trippiness can wait until the water is back in the 50’s and there’s a more generous margin of error.

We rush to our cars to change clothes and start the process of rewarming.

We have our rhythm down.

My clothes are lined up in the order to dress in, so I don’t even have to think about it.

Wool hat on before peeling down the top half of my suit. Once the struggle is over and the first layer is on, I’m relieved.

My flirtation with hypothermia will not end in tragedy. At least, it won’t today.

I like soft wool that fits close. My swim buddy has made life easier with a large sweatshirt and pants that she can throw on without precise coordination from her hands.

This is the moment of reward. The endorphin rush is phenomenal now that it’s over.

Instead of sitting on the beach, my swim buddy and I sit in one of our vehicles with the heat on full blast. We sip hot tea, bullshit about our personal lives, and laugh at the sheer lunacy of what we do. What we just did yet again.

The laughter is the best part.

Maybe that’s why I keep doing this.

Well, that and the bragging rights, of course. Who doesn’t love getting mad respect for doing something crazy?

Update February 13, 2021

I spoke a little too soon when I wrote this piece. Due to the latest snowpocalypse in Portland, the water has dropped to the low to mid 30’s.

My swim buddy and I hit it at 35 degrees yesterday, after walking barefoot across the snowy beach. It was agony, and I didn’t even last 3 minutes.

But I still did it.

If anybody would like to read “Flirting with Hypothermia, Part 2 - Riding the Edge of Pain and Pleasure,” click HERE.

Flirting With Hypothermia, Part 2 - Riding the Edge of Pain and Pleasure

Photo by Rok Romih from Pexels

To swim in skins is to ride the edge between pleasure and pain. At least it is when the water remains above 50°.

The water is excruciating when we first step in, my swim buddy and I. We wade in to our hips and waist, and wait through the pain until the numbness sets in. It doesn’t help that the day is blowing.  

I don’t know what’s worse, the freeze of the water permeating my legs and belly or the wind cutting into the flesh of my chest and back. 

At last I’m numb enough to thrust my hands in, and the pain resurrects.

I don’t resist the urge to scream and cuss all over again. I swear a lot, hollering at the top of my lungs, during those first moments in the water.

It seems an eternity before my hands get numb enough to step in deeper to my shoulders. The armpits are another area of agony until I acclimate to the cold of the river.

Finally, it’s time for the brain freeze. I dunk and swim on my back for the final torture. With the water in the 50’s, I can still bear to swim with no bathing cap.

Those minutes with my head immersed in the river seem like hours because it hurts like a motherfucker. I feel like my brain is turning to ice from the back of my skull and through my ears.

Again, it seems like forever until my body and brain adjusts to the cold. 

But once I am, bring on the maniac bliss.

That moment when pleasure comes to reconcile with pain is like no other. 

Once that switch is flipped, I remember why I do this.

In that moment, I understand why people are into BDSM. The presence of agony makes ecstasy that much sharper and sweeter.

Coincidentally, my swim buddy is really into kink.

How do I know that?

It’s remarkable the subjects that come up during that hour of rewarming on the beach after the swim. Besides, most people I know in the BDSM community are open about their sexuality, and more comfortable with the subject than we vanilla folks.

I found her when the water was still in the 60’s.

When the river was still in the 60’s, after adjusting to the temp, the water felt nothing but good and refreshing, and I could easily swim for an hour, 1 mile+.

But even when the water was in the 60’s and it was still safe for me to swim solo, I could feel the temperature dropping, and knew I needed to make some new friends.

I joined some wild swimming groups on Facebook. Wild swimming is having a moment due to the pandemic since the public pools in Portland have been shut down for months.

Truly nice folks too, but most of them were straight.

I got it in my head that it would be pretty awesome to find that sweet spot, the intersection between gay lady swimmers (I saw plenty at the pools when they were open) and those who want to get frigid and explore their edges.

So in October, I posted in a couple of lesbian Facebook groups an open invitation to freeze their asses off with me as we acclimated to winter swimming in the Columbia.

As far as the comments were concerned, there was lots of enthusiasm.

“Water is Life! I love swimming, but I need to recover from dental surgery.”

“I’m DEFINITELY interested. But my work schedule is crazy right now!”

“I love this idea! But I can’t join you until the end of the month!”

For all the chatter, the only queer who showed up was the kinky one.

My swim buddy thinks I’m in denial about being vanilla.

“You must like pain some if you’re into this,” she quips. “Because this hurts like hell.”

Not anymore it doesn’t.

I’m giddy riding that edge of pleasure and pain, and the rush is exquisite.

Photo by Engin Akyurt from Pexels

The endorphins pouring from my brain flood my body, the high runs amok like a hyperactive rugrat on the last day of school, drunk with dreams of summer freedom and the pure euphoria of possibility.

On that particular day, the boats go past and the planes fly right over our heads as they always do. It so happens that the beach where we access the river is close to the airport. The sonic roar of the planes add yet another lunatic edge to winter swimming. Even with my head immersed, the muffled growl of aviation sounds through vibration in water.

But the wind is what makes this day stand out, to make a memory forever etched inside my soul. The river is raucous and makes waves to crash over us. It’s hardly with the force of the ocean, but it’s enough to convince me I’m invincible. 

I’m not, of course. But I savor that illusion and leap into the yummy, frolicking with the waves like a clumsy dolphin tripping on magic mushrooms.

“Look at us! We are such bad asses! Oh Hell Fucking YEAH!”

My swim buddy looks as blissed out as I am, but she is a little more measured in her delight. She’s also not as strong a swimmer as I am.

I’ve been swimming since infancy. She didn’t learn until adulthood.

We thrash around and swim for roughly 30-40 minutes. I swim about a ½ mile, but I don’t get too far from my swim buddy. We are there for each other’s safety after all.

At last, it’s time to get out. I’m so numb I can’t feel my body. It’s the closest to an out-of-body experience I’ve ever come as we stagger to our shelter.

We have a grace period of about 10 minutes to get dressed before the chilled blood in our extremities hits our core and our body temperature is officially dropped. 

It’s a wrestling match to get dressed in multiple layers when my hands and fingers don’t work as they usually do. Somehow I manage, and start sipping my HOT tea in an attempt to stave off the shivers.

Nothing compares to being cold from the inside out.

There are not enough layers to give relief, nor enough blankets. I could be prepared for an arctic expedition and I’d still feel like I was freezing as the shivers start. 

The wind makes things even more obnoxious on this day. As much of a struggle to put it up before we got in the river, my swim buddy and I find that the shelter is hopelessly inadequate on this day for rewarming.

What we need is a 3-season tent to give some respite from the elements. Instead, the flaps slap around us, while slivers of sharp wind pierce through us.

It is possible we stayed in the water a little too long.

My shivers quake me to the core. So violent I shake I can barely sip from my thermos.

“Goddammit!!!” 

There’s also lots of swearing as we make our way back to normal body temperature. That takes much longer than it does to get cold.

My swim buddy fares no better as she hunches over, desperate to warm her core.

“I don’t think I want to be friends with you anymore. You make me too cold!”

Of course, she’s only kidding.

Between the cold of my innards, the incessant trembling, and the merciless wind whipping through the shelter, this scene is so unreal I can’t stop laughing. Nor can my swim buddy.

The discomfort is savage. And amazing.

We feel alive.

I savor the wretchedness.

It reminds me of those years I lived in Alaska, and how humbling it is to face the force of nature. It’s a grand awareness to know I’m tiny, insignificant when confronted with something so much greater and stronger than I.

As we always do, my swim buddy and I talk about embarrassing and personal subjects, while shivering and laughing and drinking hot tea.

Today was the most difficult and challenging swim we’ve had thus far as we acclimate to winter swimming.

We snuggle to give each other warmth, yet it still takes 1½ hours before our core body temp is warm enough for us to leave.

As my swim buddy and I go our separate ways, I’m beside myself with elation.

When the temperature of the water is in the 50’s, cold-water swimming is hella fun.

I can’t wait to do that again.

To read Flirting With Hypothermia, Part 1, click HERE.

Friendship Saves the Lone Wolf

Image by Anja🤗#helpinghands #solidarity#stays healthy🙏 from Pixabay 

“Sorry it’s burned,” said the Shepherd. “I probably should have left it raw because I’m not much of a cook.”

“Well, I can help you with that,” the Wolf replied. “Or at least I could have.”

“You can still talk me through it. That is, if you want to.”

That was all the invitation the Wolf needed. 

He fell into the Shepherd’s routine as if he’d been part of his flock for years. He helped gather the sheep, running after those that roamed too far. 

They also worked well together with hunting. The Wolf honed his sense of smell and hearing to track animals and chase them out of hiding to the Shepherd waiting with his rifle. 

As he promised, the Wolf taught him how to cook, then how to forage. 

The Shepherd was lavish in his praise, swearing he’d never eaten so well in his life as he had since the Wolf joined him.

The Wolf insisted the honor was his and he meant it. 

Nobody since his grandfather inspired his awe until now.  

The grace in which he was received would be the first of many times when the Wolf saw the Shepherd treat others with a dignity that was rare. 

He was stunned when he realized his new friend had a need for solitude, often distancing himself to be alone for a few hours. 

The Shepherd possessed a serenity the Wolf had never seen in a human being, a quality he attributed to the divinity of a master. 

He was certain because his hollow stopped throbbing from the time he joined his flock, and he hadn’t suffered the vile of rage and hatred since the night he unburdened his soul. 

The Shepherd was amused by the Wolf’s exalted view of him.

“I think gratitude may be clouding your judgment,” he said. “I’m no more than a creature of my way of life.”

“I’ve met many shepherds in my travels. And I’ve never met any like you.”

His friend shrugged and the Wolf dropped the subject. 

But the more he came to know the Shepherd, the more he admired him. 

The Wolf was more than a touch envious when he discovered the Shepherd was a learned man, able to read, write, and do basic math. 

He could also play the violin, which he traded for his fiddle. 

When he wasn’t playing music, the Shepherd loved to draw. Parchment and pencils were his only luxuries and he indulged every day. 

He sketched memories from his past as well as images from the present, his eyes glazed over and the pencil capturing forever a cherished moment with sharp realism. 

“How did you learn all this?” the Wolf asked one morning while his friend drew him.

“A retired governess was on my route about twenty years ago.”

The Shepherd sounded vague when he answered, eyes shifting between the Wolf and the paper, brushing his pencil without rest.   

“Winters were mild in her village, the time of year I passed through. Since travel was arduous, I often stayed as long as I could. One day, she suggested we barter lessons and lodging for sheep. So I stayed with her every winter and gave her three sheep when I left. After ten years, I learned everything I wanted to know and she had a nice flock of her own.”   

The Shepherd trailed off, making the final strokes to his sketch and displaying his work with a flourish.

“So how do you like it?”   

The Wolf stared at the likeness and wondered how that could be him. 

The animal in the drawing seemed so powerful, lying upright with forelegs stretched out. The details were exquisite, the mass of black on black vivid. Even the eyes could be distinguished from the fur. 

“Do I really look like this?” he whispered. 

“Of course you do.”

“You are such a good man,” the Wolf blurted. “Why didn’t you ever marry?”

The Shepherd grew still, peering at him for a moment before he spoke.

“What a strange question you ask. This is no life for a woman and children.”

“That’s absurd. I met families of herders, three or four generations that traveled all year.”

“I have over a hundred sheep,” the Shepherd replied. “That’s all the family I need.”

“That’s not the same as a wife and little ones. Have you never fallen in love?”

Again the Shepherd didn’t answer right away, frowning and looking intently at the Wolf for a few minutes.

“I have loved once. However, nothing that was destined to last.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

But the Shepherd would say nothing more, just held up his hand and turned away.