Cold Connections

Harley Davidson, Scottish Freedom & the Emergence of the Brobe

It’s the Saturday after Thanksgiving. My bare feet stick to the frozen asphalt of the Sunset Beach parking lot and I’m surrounded by dozens of Shelter Island locals who, like me, are wearing nothing but a bathing suit. Some came in costume—there’s a dude in head-to-toe body paint, dressed as an American flag, a woman in ankle-length robes and candelabra tiara (apparently St. Lucia?) and 20 of my friends dressed as Scottish freedom fighters.

“Take that ridiculous coat off and get in the game.”

That’s Nick, and he’s referring to the insulated overcoat I just got for my birthday. It’s an obscenely large gore tex cocoon that’s fleece-lined (you’ve probably seen versions on swimmers at the Olympics or hanging from the shoulders of football players on cold days)¹. It reminds me of the outfits the bad guys wore in the immortal Don Johnson & Mickey Rourke classic, ‘Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man’ (props if you remember this slice of Americana gold). 

The coat was a gift from my mom who’s standing paces away, huddled with my father against the cold, and her present was protecting me from the 40 degree fall morning and its 20 degree wind chill. My compadres, almost all 20 of them (including Nick it begrudges me to admit), instead were coat-less and exposed to the elements. The only protection they had was watered down coffee being handed out and the blue body paint, tartan kilts and cardboard shields from our collective team Braveheart costume. 

This was our second year at the Shelter Island Turkey Plunge (now in its 19th year), and we were getting our sea legs. Last November, we’d barely made it in the water, having parked a ½ mile up the beach and losing all feeling by the time we got to the starting line at the end of Crescent Beach. This year, we’d come earlier, with numbers, and far more motivated. 

The annual plunge to raise money for our local library drew more than 150 participants this year. Our band of merry pranksters alone had ballooned from a handful of timid souls last Thanksgiving to 20 this year. That included my parents (supporting not swimming), my aunt and uncle, friends, friends of friends and 9 children—all adorned as Scottish rebels.

I dropped my weather-proof insulated robe, revealing my pale winter chest sheathed in a tartan shawl and the kilt that arrived from Amazon that morning. Derek stood regally next to me, his German constitution shielding him from the elements, broad chest puffed proudly as we peacock in the November air.

The call goes out to gather at the beach for the plunge. 

The energy rises. Children giggle, fathers posture bravely, feet shuffle. Piles of detritus emerge in the sand as plungers shed hats, jackets and layers. A large digital clock starts the count down at waters edge as we line up. 

“Aye, William Wallace is 7 feet tall and shoots fire balls from his eyes and lightning from his arse.”

The clock counts down and my mind still sees a window for escape.  

“What happens if we can’t get in? How cold is hypothermic, these toes are numb? Maybe there are some videotapes we need to return?”

The anticipation of pain is shared by everyone.  It’s the same giddy fear that tickles your balls before a triathlon as your toes grip the beach nervously with a hundred other athletes wearing penguin suits. You’re heading willingly towards a test of character and will, choosing to be there instead of nestled in your warm bed or otherwise surrendering to the circumstances of your life. You’re choosing to control what you can and reaching into the cold darkness to find out what’s real and what’s not, how much of your fear is substantiated and how much is just imagined.

Too late. The horn sounds and the plucky streak towards the water while the confident stride aloof into the cold…are they not hearing the same internal protests? 

The walk in is easy, I just downshift into a low power gear that knows only forward and can power through low-grade pain. Reaching thigh high water, the thought shoots across my consciousness like a summer firework—‘we’re gonna have to dive in’. I start some nervous chatter with Nick, struggling to smooth the anxious vibration in my voice and grasping for equanimity. His two sons, 7 and 5, have already submerged. 

“It’s the brown fat,’ I tell Nick. ‘Young kids have more of it.’

Somehow, people are already trudging back towards the beach so embarrassment arrives. I sit down in the 50 degree water and, as always, panic sets in. But I’ve been here and a few deep breath carry me past the 20 seconds of pain before my body fills my veins feel-good natural chemicals. 

The panic fades and calm arrives quickly, like a ship coming out of hyperspace. Perception slows even though you start absorbing more information, like opening the aperture on a camera and slowing the shutter speed.  

Maybe that’s how the cold connects us to others. It’s the experience of being reminded that we aren’t alone—that we’re part of a bigger, more elemental energy, like a leaf recognizing the tree it sprung from or a wave seeing the ocean it rose out of. The cold shows you a new way of seeing, beyond the narrow language of the mind and the wild assumptions of the ego, exposing you to new wavelengths, new frequencies that you can only feel, not see.

As an acolyte of the cold, I’ve been more connected to my family (I’ve plunged with my aunt, who now dips in the winter ponds behind her house in Massachusetts and with my brother who I cut through Connecticut lake ice to plunge with), with my friends (my bud’s 8 year old daughter now taunts me weekly about outlasting me during our next cold plunge—no chance btw Dylan if you’re reading this), and with newcomers including a dreadlocked sauna mystic who’s one of the greatest craftsmen I’ve ever met and a mustached PIC² who built his own DIY cold plunge on his deck in Greenpoint (which I tested last weekend to my great pleasure). 

What I’m saying is that the cold can dissolve the illusions we’ve all built around ourselves about who we should be or what we should be doing or any of those other bullshit narratives that develop in our minds.  For a brief moment, it lets us see ourselves for who we are—all connected, all part of something bigger than ourselves. 

And while that window of clarity might be brief, its memory lasts forever as a feeling imprinted within us. We are all one, we just sometimes need to do hard things together to remember that. 

So find a beach or starting line or pottery studio (or anywhere you find yourself drawn to but feel fear trying to talk you out of) and surrender to that calling, let yourself be immersed and humbled by it. Perhaps you’ll find your beliefs, and the fears they can elicit, are overblown or maybe completely outdated. Perhaps you’ll make a new friend, gain a new perspective or even see yourself more clearly. Perhaps you’ll find that stillness where all the noise dissolves and the signal becomes clear, that we’re all just waves on the same ocean.

1. Quick aside here, there are no good multi-use bathrobes today. Where are the robes that we can wear putzing around the house and then keep on to take out the trash confidently or make a quick grocery store run? I’m talking a warm wicking interior and water resistant exterior that looks to an observer like a casual coat but underneath you may have nothing on but boxers or your birthday suit. Keep your eyes peeled for a soon to be released prototype of the Brobe, the modern man’s casual house coat (I’m looking for investors and design partners so if you share my passion HMU).

2. Partner in Crime