I couldn’t hear the shirtless and slightly inebriated man standing next to me at the water’s edge, but by the way he raised his head and eyebrows after his mouth was done moving, I knew he was asking me a question.

“How cold did the announcer say the water is?” the swimming-cap-clad man loudly repeated over the coaxing crowd that lined the pier jutting out into Carnelian Bay.
“Oh, I think he said ‘an even 40 degrees,” I replied.

As the words escaped my mouth with a cloud of steam and a hint of whiskey, the excitement fostered from encouraging friends, the crowd and the 26 other men about to join me for a swim was quickly replaced by the kind of unease felt when singled out in a sport you are clearly unprepared for — missing that pop fly on the first day of T-ball came to mind.

For weeks I had told friends of my intent to compete in the Polar Bear swim, encouraging them to come to Gar Woods to have a few drinks and watch me make a fool of myself.

And if they didn’t show up, I probably wouldn’t have swam.

But as I made my way into the lake, turning to see some pumping their fists, others trying not to laugh, I knew I had to go through with it.

“Mental note,” I told myself. “Don’t try to act cool by volunteering for potentially agonizing activities.”

Even less encouraging than my laughing friends, however, were the women who were finishing their swim as we began wading out to the starting line.

“How was it?” I asked the girl who looked most stunned out of the pack.

Shivering and out of breath, she told me “just keep moving.” It seemed like the only response she could muster, but would turn out to be sage advice halfway through my swim.

“Hey, if she could finish it, I might have a chance to win this thing,” I confidently thought to myself, trying to remember the intervals of exertion I would use when swimming the 200 meter freestyle in high school. Having not swam competitively in years I decided 50 percent for the first 100 yards, 75 percent for the next 75 yards, and 100 percent for the rest was safe.

But the closer I got to the starting line, panic took over and any “plans” I had were soon forgotten and I simply focused on not drowning — as dazed as I was, the thought of going under in front of that many people was more embarrassing than a concern.

And once that water reached my belly button, clear thoughts of anxiety were replaced with the muddled sounds of short, inconsistent breathing I could not discern as my own or someone else’s.

It was time to swim.

When the announcer shouted “Go!” and the cheers from the crowd swelled so that I could hear them beneath the icy water, adrenaline took over and the muscle memory of my competitive swimming days propelled me near the front of the pack.

50 yards later I realized I was in trouble.

Muscle memory is a great thing. It’s that incredible force that allows you to pick up a tennis racket or a golf club and initially compete surprisingly well even if you haven’t played in years.

This was different. For those first 50 yards, my body was swimming at an “easy” pace based on a time in my life when I would swim upwards of 4,000 meters a day. Fast forward six years of relatively idle physical activity, including an indulgent four years of college, and that 50 percent pace translates into the whole of my aquatic capabilities.

Realizing I had to conserve energy, I turned over and swam the rest of the distance to the halfway buoys on my back. But as I concentrated on regulating my breathing from frantic gasps to a consistent pant, I began treading water more than actually swimming, which allowed the cold to seize my muscles of what little use was left in them.

My body was running on empty but I had to keep moving or else I would shut down and not be able to finish the race, something I would not let myself do.
There wasn’t really any other option; like the girl had told me, “You have to keep moving.”

The final 100 yards of my race were something of a blur, but if I had to guess, I’d say my attempt at backstroke mirrored that of a 6-year-old’s, feet and legs pointed aimlessly at the bottom of the pool, flailing both arms in unison instead of proper alternating strokes. That and the doggy paddle.

Finally, when I was able to touch bottom, I stood up and took my time walking the rest of the way in, exhausted, but no longer effected by the cold.

It was over, and as I army-crawled my way onto shore, careful not catch any fingers or toes between the rocks — if I had broken a few I probably wouldn’t have noticed at the time — I was once again greeted by friendly faces, some pumping their fists, others fighting back the laughter.