If your body temperature is ideal right now, take a moment to appreciate this. We need warmth to move, and more importantly, to digest our food to create energy. More than warmth, we need heat. 98 degrees is hot. To gauge the importance of heat, try to fall asleep with cold feet. Your brain will not allow it, unless you succumb to exhaustion, because cold temperatures are so exceedingly dangerous to the life of your body, and the brain works overtime to keep that body functioning. We have an advantage over reptiles because we digest our food through oxidation reduction, which creates heat, and so warms us. In a way, we each have our own miniature heating plant.

I strode into the frigid ocean today, shocking my brain into a screaming pulse, like an incessant car alarm, that dispensed with any effort to form words or dialog, to rely instead on an immediate insistence on getting the hell out, and getting out now. Had there been words in some rudimentary approximation of language it would have gone something like: “Death. Death. Death.” It was not subtle. There was no dialectic, or argument. The brain assumes the creature walking around as its slave is self-interested, and so no explanation is necessary. Facing up to this demand is a good case study in motivation. My toes were pricked like pins and needles even so suddenly, while my chest was still warm and dry in the morning sunshine. I immediately regretted my earlier motivation to leave my wet suit at home, so I would not be tempted to wuss out and retreat to technology in the face of nature. I wondered how long I could even safely stay in at such a low temperature before risk of disorientation from hypothermia would push me to the beach. I am motivated to exercise, and remained determined to get a work out in, because surrender on any one day could chip away at the routine, the motivation to keep moving even as my body deteriorates and makes such moving more difficult. I had places to go, and people to meet, and knew I would not dry off, go home, lace up running shoes and move that way. Getting out meant giving up, yet there was the call of sanity which makes it clear that there are times when giving up is a victory.

Well butter my backside and call me a biscuit! I spied two swimmers coming at me wearing orange caps, denoting them as members of my local ocean swimming group, Crusty Barnacles. I spied one wet suit immediately, turned my gaze to the other swimmer. Wet suit. Of course. They had brains. Now, at least, I had a motivation to find out who they were, so I dove forward to the water to swim their way. My first thought was that swimming was impossible. My second thought was that my head was merely encompassed in insufferable pain, and not an explosion the brain interprets as a pulling apart of the skull. So not the coldest I have ever experienced, but certainly the coldest without a wet suit. My third thought took four strokes – my breathing stroke – to register. I couldn’t breathe. You might imagine the alarm the brain sends to the heart to signal impending death from the current course of action. My heart pumped so wildly there seemed to be no room for my lungs to move to draw in a breath. I had to stand up, and so slow down, and breathe that way. It gave me a moment to reconsider my choices. I knew from experience I had to dive back in, or I would surely hightail it out. My head was cold. My skin was cold. My feet were freezing. I had to maintain that cold long enough to convince my brain to shut up, and shut out instinct. Logic told me I could safely stay in the water for five minutes, for ten. I dove back into my stroke, pleading with my brain to relax.

Have you ever argued with your brain? There is only one way to win: brute force. The body had to keep the brain in that water until the brain switched focus to survival in the current environment, rather than survival by forcing a change of environment. It wasn’t working. I had trouble breathing. I had to gasp every second stroke, rather than glide into every fourth stroke. This is not unusual in cold water, but was more exigent this morning. I couldn’t seem to slow my brain down. Thankfully, I had the distraction of the swimmers coming toward me, now only a bit more than 100 years off. They stood up and waved. I stood up and waved back. Ah! A deep breath. I dove back to make my way to them. Now I had a goal in addition to capturing oxygen. I had people. A herd! Safety in numbers. Biology took over and I made it to the meeting point to greet Ryan, and meet Scott. The water temperature had been in the mid to high 60s the last time I had swum four days before. Ryan told me it was 57 degrees yesterday. It was colder than that, today. I blamed the low tide for sucking away the warmer top waters, but the low tide didn’t care. I noted to the guys that they were smart enough to wear wet suits. Scott, attempting to distract from my foolishness, noted, “At least you have gloves on.” Yes, but only because I have a sprained finger so I use the gloves to help ease the strain. They do nothing to prevent loss of body heat, which my brain made sure was crystal clear to me, despite Scott’s kind words.

They went back in their direction, while I took off in mine. By this time, I recognized the sensation of liquid ice against my skin, flowing around me to propel me forward with each stroke. The world becomes a very small place when focus is so precise on a goal tempered by survival instinct. My toes were growing numb. I could still feel them, but knew that at some point – (five minutes, 30 minutes?) they would be numb. I swore that the numbness would be my signal to get out. I had reinforced it to Ryan by telling him I would swim until I got too cold, and then would get out before risk of disorientation. I swore to myself a third time I was going to stick to this plan. My biggest risk was overconfidence, pushing myself beyond the point my body could handle. The body has no motivation, any more than the tide. Remove the elements necessary for its function, and it will cease to function.

I pick a distant shore point to maintain direction. I had the advantage today of clear water, and low surf, so I was shallow enough to easily see the bottom, to know I was not headed out to deeper water, or waterless sand. Still, direction proved difficult with my brain still screaming at me. Calm down. Find your point. Calm down. Find your point. The brain switches strategies when forced to. The car alarm had not forced me out of the water, so it considered logic: how quickly could it get me out? It reasoned that the straighter I went, the nearer I would be to my distance goal, and the sooner I would be out of danger. Soon enough I was on a bee line. I even started to relax. Well, I started to not be overwhelmed by survival anxiety and pain. There was still fear of screwing up. Of disorientation.
When would I turn around? How far should I go?

I have a favorite shore view of a dance pavilion that is a bit more than half way to the turn around point of my normal swim. I resolved to try to get there, while telling myself not to make it a goal. My goal had been met. I was in the water, my body was moving, my heart rate was up. I resolved to swim a bit faster than usual, given that my time in the water would be less, and soon I was making tracks. There is something peaceful about the cold, once you beat back fear. Today it recalled a Jack London short story, To Start a Fire, that describes a man freezing to death for his failure at fire starting, with the torture and fear of impending death giving way to a peaceful surrender to the lowering body temperature. Oops. Don’t think about that. Yet the distraction gave me hope, for by the time I refocused on my shore point I realized I was making good progress. I was at the bathhouse near the half way point to my turn around, and was sure I could make the dance pavilion. I wiggled my toes to make sure I could feel them. I could – sort of.

There was satisfaction, though not triumph, at drawing abreast of the dance pavilion. I felt stable, and determined to press on to a ramp which marked the turn around of my shorter swims. I did the bargaining with the drill sergeant in my brain to make it clear that making it all the way back to the hotel where I started was not a goal. Getting out safely was the only goal. And with that, I was at the ramp in what seemed to be no time flat.

I always stand up at my turn around point to survey the beauty of the ocean, beach, and sky as I catch my breath before starting back. Today the pause reminded me that I was freezing, so I dispensed with the ritual and plunged back the other way before I had time to reconsider. The curve of the beach gives a different shore angle in this direction which creates an optical illusion which makes it look like I travel dozens of yards in just a few strokes. Getting back seems a cinch! But logic bid me to hold that thought. I could see the bottom, and knew I had only travelled ten or so yards. It would be a grind, and my toes were growing numb. Fear whispered to me, with none of the insistence of an alarm, but instead with the cool, evil sound of pleasure at my impending death. Was I already in too long? Could I make it? Should I get out? How will I be able to judge the moment between numbness and disorientation? The heart picked up its pace, yet I tried to shut it all out. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. I could still swim. I was in no immediate danger. I didn’t think I could swim all the way back, but I could keep going for now.

The dance pavilion was closer from this direction, and I got that far in better shape than I had expected. The cold had enveloped me in its cocoon and I felt safe. This was working. I was going to make it back, and I was going to make it back in good shape! I pushed through to the half way point of the bathhouse. It is a very long bathhouse, so getting to it, and getting past it, are two very different things. I could not seem to get past it. The element of exhaustion creeped in to take up arms with the cold in opposition to my success. Running lower on energy means running lower on the fire of oxidation reduction. Less production of heat. Bad fact in this frigid water. My saving grace was, I told myself I didn’t have to make it. Just go as far as I could go. I had at least a little more in me.
Remember the bee line I had been on? The bees were gone. I had the hardest time finding my shore point, and when I did find it, I was invariably off course, and had to reset. The most likely explanation for this is disorientation, though I did not think of it until writing it just now. This makes sense, if I was disoriented. But I could still feel my feet. I mean the part of my feet beyond my toes. I had been at lower body temperature than this in the water, so I could go for at least a little longer. But I seemed to be going slower. My brain tried to convince me I was making no progress at all. Just give up, it told me. Look at that sunshine. Look at this sand. So close, and beckoning. Yet the hotel that marked my end point was also getting closer, at least slowly. I was now no more than a quarter mile off. I determined to shut everything out to focus solely on the sandy bottom, with crabs scuttling away from my current, and not look to the shore. Not judge my progress. Just go. Go. Go.
It never works for long. Not when I’m tired. I always have to peek. How far have I gone? How much farther to go? Invariably at this point of the swim, likely because of angles and attitudes, it seems I have made no progress at all. I had to give up. Not give up and get out, but give up and go. Just go. Just swim.
Some days the swim is so much fun I slow down at the end, I go a bit farther, I don’t want to get out. Today was not one of those days. I forced myself to the point at the end of the hotel, then stood up in relief. Over. Done. But the wind whipped the water on my skin such that even in the sunshine, I was now losing more heat than when in water. I was in over my waist, and perhaps should have braved the surf to swim toward shore, but the thought of more swimming was torture. I pushed my steps toward the beach. Yet the beach refused to come nearer. My legs were tired, and each inch of skin I exposed gave the wind more surface to steal my heat. I told myself it was ten more steps to shallower water, five more steps. But it wasn’t. Not at low tide. It might have been a hundred yards, and seemed like more. For the first time this morning, I got angry with the universe. I just wanted out. I just wanted warmth. I had earned this! Now cut it out, and let me get to the beach.

The universe did not listen.

What a relief when my feet finally hit the dry sand. I had no time to celebrate in that wind, but it did feel good. I should say that I felt pride in accomplishment, and satisfaction at safety, though nothing felt particularly good at that moment. I thought about running to my car, to get out of the cool wind, but my body refused. That is a polite way of putting it. If my body knew how to swear, I would have heard a sailor’s exclamations. I think I walked fast. Maybe. But when I got to where my car should be, I did not see it. There was a black car near where I had parked, but the body type was not my car. Yet there was no other car near it. I looked at the license plate. It was mine.
Strange that I could not recognize my own car when looking right at it? Well, I am not a very observant person. If you asked me what color my new car is, I might not be able to tell you. I am not always observant, but there had to be more going on. I swung open the passenger door and crouched low against the wind. I fumbled for my towel. Fumbled, because I was shivering. For the first time, I was glad I was not in a wet suit, which is exceedingly difficult to take off with numb hands. The bathing suit was bad enough, but I managed to get dry, and then was able to hop to the driver’s seat and shut the door to capture the sun-warmed air of the interior.

Blessed heat.