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.

Remembering Miss Corky

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Years ago, during my vagabond bartender phase, I worked in New Orleans for a very colorful and flamboyant family, the Karnos.

They were the last of the "old-time French Quarter" families who used to run all the restaurants and bars in the Quarter with an iron fist.

As one of my sister bartenders put it: “This is not a democracy.”

In their heyday the Karnos owned some legendary burlesque strip clubs, but by the time I got there, they ran a few bars on Bourbon street and talked a lot about those days.

For instance, Blaze Starr (a redheaded burlesque stripper who had had an affair with Earl Kemp Long) had worked for them.

Miss Billie, my boss, had come there at 16 from Mississippi and worked as a stripper and lured Mr. Nick (who was deceased by the time I got there) away from his first wife and kids to marry her and have a second family. The Karno daughters taught their friends how to twirl tassels from their nipples when they were children.

The kind of salacious scandalousness typical of sinful cities like New Orleans, but one of their human treasures was Miss Corky.  

She was one of their general managers, and had worked for the Karnos for decades.

According to the story, which I heard directly from Miss Corky, she had started working for the Karnos when Mr. Nick "bought" her from one of the other families.

Bought her?

"Yeah," she said. "He paid my boss to fire me, so he could hire me. Nobody stole employees back in those days."

Miss Corky was one of the first people in the country to undergo male to female transsexual (as it was called then) surgery. She had always presented as a woman, what used to be known as a transvestite.

She must have had a vivid reputation – which is no small achievement in the French Quarter in New Orleans in the late 60’s. She had managed a strip club when Mr. Nick heard about her, “bought” her, so she then managed the Karno strip clubs. 

There was a reason Mr. Nick went to that much trouble. Miss Corky was good for business because she was formidable, a truly unforgettable human being.

Miss Corky was always “dressed” as they said in New Orleans. No casual wear for that woman, every day she donned cute dresses with matching accessories of shoes, jewelry, color-coordinated tights or panty hose (no matter how hot and humid it was), her hair always done, and her make-up immaculate.

She was a vision.

She stood over 6 feet tall, had skinny legs, and busty in a way that comes from  blessings of the gods of silicone.

Her wit was razor sharp and faster than lightning.

On one day, when Miss Corky looked particularly dazzling, a bartender was terrifically impressed.

“I love your dress, Miss Corky! How much did that cost?”

“About 200 blow jobs,” Miss Corky replied without missing a beat, and a toss of her head.

Maybe it was all those years managing strip clubs, but she had a crude sense of humor, and nothing was off limits. And I mean nothing.

She often pulled up her dress to show off “these lips” of her vagina. I think my mouth dropped the first time I saw her do that, while the bar manager and head bartender laughed.

She had a biting tongue if you pissed her off, and didn’t suffer fools at all, much less gladly. With that wit, Miss Corky blasted the egos of the weak, the unstable, and the addicted who thought they could put one past her.

The bar industry has always had its share of alcoholics, whose addictions get the better of them to the point that they aren’t employable. And in a city like New Orleans, the bar industry has more than its fair share.

Anyway, John was a pretty nice guy, and had been a bartender for a long time. But he had a horrible drinking problem, and couldn’t seem to work sober. He often showed up drunk, and drank while on the job.

Anyway, one day, Miss Corky called him out on it, and John tried to deny it. In response, Miss Corky put her finger in his “soda,” licked it, and immediately tasted the vodka.

“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”

Needless to say, John lost his job that day.

Miss Corky was tougher than hell, yet very compassionate - depending on what the situation called for, and frankly, if she liked you.

She often got in my face for being so introverted, and told me I needed to get myself out there and enjoy myself.

“You really need to get with the program, honey. As Auntie Mame always said: ‘Live! Live!’”

So I took her advice. Of course, I did.

When the time came for me to move on, I gave notice. On my last night Miss Corky patted my shoulder and smiled.

“You’re going to miss me once you’re gone, won’t you? I bet you’ll tell stories about me.”

She certainly got that right.

Miss Corky commanded respect. They really don’t make them like that anymore.

I’m sure she’s dead by now. She was in her 60’s when I was knew her in the late 90’s.

But if she’s not, I’ll bet she’s still a glory.

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.

Flirting With Hypothermia, Part 1

So my latest hobby is wild winter swimming. The Rona pandemic has a lot to do with that. But I think Wim Hof may also be partly to blame.

Then there is the endorphin rush. That definitely keeps me hooked. Fortunately, the high of happy hormones hits while swimming, and that matters a lot.

Right now, the water hurts bad. So bad.

Because all the pools are shut down in Oregon, as well as most of the dance events that have kept me sane, I started swimming in the lakes and rivers in the middle of summer.

That got interrupted with the fires that gave Portland the distinction of the worst air quality in the country. After the air was breathable again, I went back to swimming at the end of September with the intention to see how far I could go into winter swimming.

So far, so good. 

I go swimming in the Columbia River that cuts the border between Washington and Oregon. The water was just under 41° the last time I went swimming. With water that cold, the best I can hope for is numbness that makes the brief swim tolerable. 

The water is supposed to be between 40-41° today and just over 41° tomorrow.

As I write this, it’s New Year’s Eve and I have yet to do my dip.

I’ll probably go right after writing this draft because I’ll be too f*cking cold when I’m done, and will need a couple of hours to rewarm.

I’ll also go again on New Year’s Day to start out 2021 with a fresh freezing baptism to christen and cleanse myself.

I like to approach certain occasions with rituals. Rituals add richness and depth to the mundane; I would even say they add meaning.  

But back to winter swimming because this is not a blog about New Year’s resolutions.

By wild winter swimming, I refer to swimming in “the skins” as people say in the wild swimming world. I wear a bathing suit, bathing cap, goggles, and water shoes.

Thus far, I have not utilized neoprene to protect me from the cold.

Although I must admit I’m tempted to get gloves because the water really hurts my hands. Dunking my hands is the worst part. It’s harder than walking in the water to my waist, and it’s harder than fully dunking and swimming.

Unfortunately, the hands are a vital source of information. Through the hands and fingers, I can determine how cold it is. The basic test is tapping thumb to each of the fingers for dexterity.

Once the cold is too much, one can’t do that – and it’s definitely time to get out of the water ASAP. I don’t go that far. I get out once my hands start feeling stiff. I don’t think it’s wise to push it beyond being able to touch my fingers at all.

It’s too easy to stay in too long.  

My sense of time – which is excellent in normal conditions – goes awry in the cold water. 10 minutes often feels like half that much.

And believe it or not, once the endorphins hit, I want to stay in that freezing water.  

One day, I stayed in a little too long and my lips were blue for about 15 minutes while rewarming.

I only need to go once a week to keep my body acclimated to the cold. And sometimes, once a week is all I can manage. I have to go today (December 31st) if I want to stay acclimated because it’s been a week since the last time I went.

It’s an incredible way to cleanse off the chaos of this past year. 

But why am I doing this?

1) I actually enjoy feeling a little uncomfortable. My life is soft, so filled with comfort and convenience – even now, with the pandemic. There is something about subjecting myself to the elements and the brutality of nature that puts the edge back in.

2) And there’s the pandemic. This is what the Rona has brought me to after the entire world has been shut down. Most of my favorite things to do – like Ecstatic Dance, Contact Improv, and travel – are off the table until Covid-19 is under control. So I started swimming in the middle of summer, and got a wild hair to see how far I could take it into the winter 

3) That endorphin rush I mentioned earlier. The mental health benefits can’t be beat because they are immediate. It is absolutely impossible to feel mad, sad, or scared once I step into that water. I’m too busy screaming and cussing as the cold cuts right through me as I make my way in to feel anything else. Everything disappears but the present moment. There’s no room for depression, anxiety, rage, or sorrow.

4) It’s pretty damn good for the physical health too. First, cold water builds up brown fat. The cold transforms white fat to brown fat. Brown fat can be used for heat, energy, and our metabolism. Wim Hof has an exceptionally high amount of brown fat in his system. Second, cold water helps build up the immune system – again pandemic! – which protects us from all the usual viruses including the Rona.

5) I love me a good challenge! I question my sanity every time I go into that water, because it’s so harsh. It makes me feel invincible and I feel like a bad ass every time I do it. Isn’t building confidence and a sense of self good for psychological well-being?

6) Because there’s not much else to do.  All the pools are closed in Multnomah County. All the swimmers hit the rivers and lakes this summer. Many have continued into winter with their wetsuits and neoprene.

But bad asses swim in our skins. Again refer to #5 above.

These are the ways the Rona has forced me to grow.