Post Plunge Report
By Terese Schlachter
“I never lose sight of the fact that just being is fun.”
Kathryn Hepburn, actor and avid open water swimmer
The ache bore into my bones as I inched into the frigid waters of the South River. It felt like shin splints had taken over both my legs from ankle to ass. I think I yelled, “It hurts!” but my whining was drowned out by our own shrieks—and believe it or not—giggles. So began our first “cold plunge.”
The morning of March 4 was cloudy and chilly and not at all the sort of day when the beach beckons. But I was committed, as were my co-cold plunger, Traci and our able video documentarian, Jenn. Shaking off the remnants of multiple cold-flu-bronchitis relapses I wondered at the wisdom of my first-ever extreme dip. I reasoned though, that Kathryn Hepburn believed in the power of icy water to cure the common cold. She swam through the seasons routinely near her Fenwick, Connecticut home, and lived to be 96.
Luckily, by the time we met up for our noonish plunge, the sun had come out and warmed the earth to 56 degrees. The water, however, was a much less comfy 41. We dawdled as we headed down the grassy knoll to the beach, trying to remember Dr. Mark Harper’s six rules for plunging.* The first was “Know how you are going to get out.” That was easy. We were going to turn around and walk back to where we came from. And there was something he said about breathing.
We agreed that the submersion time would be one minute, the clock starting when our feet hit the water. Hands joined, camera rolling, Traci and I stepped into the river along the pier at Sylvan Shores.
We tried to mind our breathing, just in case Dr. Mark was watching. I had anticipated that as we descended, the cold on my abdomen would set me to tears, but I was so focused on the weird sensation in my legs, I completely forgot about my torso.
“We’re breathing, we’re breathing!” we called out to Jenn. And to ourselves—testimony that we were still alive. As our shoulders dipped into the stabbing cold waterway we turned to face each other.
“One, two, three!” Traci yelled and we dunked our heads, then shot up off the river floor and whooped. As we headed back to the beach, the water became like quicksand which apparently sucked me into some sort of time warp. It seemed to take much longer to get out than in, but Jenn said the whole experience totaled just about one minute. She’d encouraged us to take a second dunk, but we hadn’t even heard her. And I’d long been fascinated by the clarity of the water during the winter months and wondered if there was a visibility upgrade. Of course, I didn’t take the time to open my eyes and lookaround. It’s all one 60-second blur.
Back on the beach, we quickly swapped our soaked suits for multiple layers of cotton, wool and wind proofing. We felt like we’d accomplished something, but what, I’m not sure.
I definitely felt happy and invigorated! But I’m not certain if I was cheered by the cold- shock or by the fact that I’d survived. We were like little kids coming off a roller coaster ride – terrified and laughing and ready to do it again. It wasn’t until I was driving home that the much-talked-about sensation of serenity and warmth wrapped me up in a blanket of contentment. I felt at peace, tension sanded away by the wind and salt. And maybe some screaming.
Four days later Traci and I were back on the beach, joined by my husband, Jon. This time I was recalling Dr. Harper’s warnings about the second plunge experience. Number two, he says, is the worst because you know what is coming and you’re not used to it yet. I’ll agree that I was slightly less enthused about this plunge compared to the first, but still willing. The air temperature was a less accommodating 47 degrees—what the atmosphere lacked in sun it made up for in chilly breezes. As Traci headed down the pier to take the water’s temperature I gazed apprehensively into the water. Something white caught my eye. Must be a rock, I thought. But then it moved. “Hey, I see something that looks like a Jellyfish!” I called to Jon and Traci. “You’ve got to be kidding m—,” Traci started. “OH! There’s a bunch of them!” Our oceanic friends at Google revealed that the “winter jellyfish” does indeed prowl the Chesapeake Bay from November through March. And it does indeed sting.
Figuring we’d be too numb to notice we stripped down and headed into the infested water with the goal of adding thirty seconds to the dip. Jon set his camera up to record in time lapse. We put him in the middle and joined hands to walk in. I braced for the pain in my legs, but it didn’t come. Instead, I gasped somewhat uncontrollably. This, says Harper, is a very normal and expected response, so it didn’t frighten me. I sucked in air several times, while calling out the time. We dunked. On Jon’s cue, we dunked again. Our feet were back on shore at exactly the 1:30 mark. Phew! We’d done it again. Traci had felt a slither around her ankle, but no sting. And we were, once again, invigorated and relieved. We dressed quickly, then Jon and I headed out for a late breakfast. As we sat contentedly sipping coffee, we were happy, but still chilled. It took more time to get warm after this dip, maybe due to the longer immersion or possibly because the air temperature was chillier. I’m a wee bit skeptical about the supposed physiological results of cold plunging, but Harper says to do six plunges before making a final assessment. Four more to go.
Back home, I dragged our giant swim bag, sopping bathing suits, several wet towels, hat, mittens, and a voluminous down coat from the car. My water shoes hung from my index finger, sprinkling the floor with a bit of sand. Ah, sand in my shoes. Spring must be near.
If you want to cold-plunge with us, come over to Sylvan Shores on April 7th , 10th , 14th and 17th . Sign up HERE.
*See earlier blog entry Proselytizing the Cold Plunge: The new feel good must-do . Also, Harper’s book: Chill, The Cold Water Swim Cure.
