The human body does not enjoy cold water. I’ve seen enough bodies––writhing in the cold, as if to escape the grip of an invisible monster––to know this. People “can’t wait” to get in, and then, they can’t wait to get out.
It’s the spectacle of the polar plunge that draws most people in. Cold water demands a high level of commitment, and therefore, plunging is an easy way prove one’s macho. It’s a went-in-brave, came-out-a-hero, kind of event. Afterwards, the survivors are wrapped in towels and admired by their (decidedly less impressive) audience.
And yet, despite the whole bravo display, there remains the moment of complete vulnerability: the body writhing in cold water. It’s not sexy. It’s primal.
Looking over my shoulder, I can usually see my plunging companions deteriorate in the water. They spin out frantically while I unwind. Their breaths get shorter as mine grow longer. I watch as they scramble to pull themselves out or retreat back to shore, yelping theatrically all the while. Only after they’ve reached safety do they look back, calling for me to follow. As if that invisible monster will get me.
Little do they know, cold water only kills my monsters.
I can’t say when my ardor for frigid water began, but for as long as I can remember, it has been intense. I was deep in this love affair by the time I reached high school. During those four years in Rhode Island, I went swimming in the ocean every month.
My monthly swim ritual included no wet suit, no waiting audience, no warm car to climb into afterwards. It was a quiet walk down to the beach, a diligent arrangement of clothes on the grey sand (for the most efficient re-layering afterwards), and a long journey to and from the waves. More than often, I was completely alone on that beach.
I loved plunging without an audience. I loved having the sand and sky to myself. And the water, which tried so hard to make me hate it.
Despite my best efforts at privacy, however, anonymous beach walkers would sometimes pause to watch. They’d hug their bundled bodies as a small, slight teenage girl stepped over ice pockets in the sand, headed down to the water. Some would grow bored of watching her dark head bob along through the waves, and they’d continue on their way. Others would wait, perhaps wondering if an emergency number needed to be called. Eventually though, they’d see her emerge––stiff and awkward, as if learning to use her body for the first time. She’d stumble back to her clothes, skin enflamed from the temperature. Maybe, they’d even catch her smiling.
There, in those winter waters, I became a different kind of powerful.
My proximity to the ocean ended with graduation, so now, I must seek out cold water at any chance. Last weekend, I had my chance.
A group of us had traveled up-state, to the rocky coast of Acadia. That night, with my brother and three good friends, I let the weight of this semester slip off my shoulders. How could I not, when the stars were so exquisite. After building up the fire and putting down a few drinks, we decided to get a better view of those stars.
The woods felt like a tunnel of darkness, and we moved through the trees like a nervous inchworm: a stretching and shrinking line of bodies. When we finally emerged at the dock, the world felt impossibly large.
The spray of silver above was truly remarkable. And yet, my eyes drifted downwards, to the placid water. In contrast to the carpet of light above, the cove looked like a dark pit, a hole in the universe.
Reaching down to touch the water, my fingers were suddenly surrounded by sparks. “Bioluminescence!” I cried excitedly. Other hands immediately joined mine , swirling the surface to trigger the organisms’ glow. The specks of light were instantaneous, blooming and dying with the water’s movement. I imagined my body incased in this light. Now, there was no question of swimming.
Stripped down to a bra and underwear, already shivering in the October Maine air, I thrust myself off the dock. It was a tumble really, a cringe mid-air––and that’s how I knew I was really scared. The fall was inky. There was a bang of water, followed by liquid silence. And then, I was swimming through stars.
Two of the boys followed me, but this time, I didn’t even watch their bodies writhe.
I floated out, letting the cold encase me, letting it consume me. I saw swirls of light ripple from my body, like the light was coming from beneath my skin. The bioluminescence danced around me––and the cold dissolved me, like a pillar of dust. A pillar of glowing dust.
And in that watery quiet, I built myself from scratch.
Quiet Histories 
let’s go cold dunk together sometime eh?
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