Swimming boils down to this: Bathwater to you is goosebumps to me. Initially swimming involves me standing on the sand, rock or pool deck repeatedly asking, “Is it cold?”

Although I identify as a cold water wimp, my BFF Jen Kretser has the cold tolerance of a yeti with a penchant for extreme sports. The Kretser family lineage includes the mythic Viking Goddess of Iceland: Unn the Deep-Minded: and Himself, Jack Frost.

When it comes to swimming, Jen is deep-end-next-level. Jen’s favorite cold water euphemisms for freezing your ta-tas off are “refreshing” and “a total reset.” Jen keeps a hatchet to hack a hole at her favorite swimmy spots if spring is late to her party.

My earliest swim of any year was on April 9, 2020 with … Jen. It was the pandemic and cold plunges promised to bolster immunity and kill off the creepies. What did I have to lose besides feeling in my extremities?

“It’s refreshing!” said Jen floating on her back, “Walk right in, don’t think.”

I charged in, just to my kneecaps. My feet began filing a lawsuit for negligence and abuse.

Then I whined, “I caaan’t,” running for my towel.

Jen shook her head muttering “And you call yourself an Adirondacker” and dove under water, resurfacing with icicles in her hair.

Fast forward to yesterday, when I snuck the latest swim of any year, Sept. 21. After I plunged in, inch by agonizing inch for ten minutes, suddenly I was transported back to my first swim lesson, when cold became a four letter word.

–

Lake Colby

–

It was June 1975.

We stood miserably dockside at 7 a.m., in the 50-degree fog, at Lake Cold-bee. Huddled together with scant clothing or a chance of sharing body heat, we pursed our purple lips to keep our teeth from chattering.

In his 2-inch-thick sweat suit the retired Navy SEAL lifeguard bellowed: “There will be no failures. You will learn to swim. DO NOT fail me. Do not fail your country.”

We were 5; the only country I knew was Country Fried Chicken in the red and white paper bucket.

“I’m c-c-cold,” muttered a brave soul.

“Cold is fear leaving the body,” said Sergeant Sweatpants, “JUMP!”

We didn’t ask “how high,” but we jumped. Our scrawny, sheet-wrinkled bodies slapped the bitter cold water. Shocked silent, the air involuntary wooshed from our lungs as we gasped like guppies. We curled into the fetal position and sank. With no alternative, we dropped one sacrificial foot into depths of leachville, and pushed off the mucky bottom, jerking our leg back to safety.

“Where are you going?” Sergeant Sweatpants barked as I scrambled up the ladder.

Captain Nemo had nothing on me. “I choose f-failure,” I said, my teeth chattering yakity-yak as I scampered my spindly legs across the beach to my Aunt Dot’s camp.

–

Dad’s School for Reluctant Swimmers

–

This is how I ended up in a paternal vice grip two days later staring down the wrong end of the same cold lake. I was in trouu-ble with my parents for going AWOL from beginner swim lessons.

The day was spring perfect; pink slippered clouds shuffled toward the horizon as we basked in seventy degrees. As I was a flight risk, my father held my hand all the way down the dock.

Our shadows rocked back and forth, mine distorted by the bright orange PFD strapped over my first new swimsuit.

That morning at breakfast there was a perfectly wrapped small present next to my plate. I was suspicious. A gift on a random day in June? Everything I had was pre-owned, including my Christmas hoppity-horse, but you know what they say about gift horses.

Inside was a green swimsuit. I pulled it on, the tags flapping Minnie Pearl style and raced around the yard. A little slow on the uptake I missed the connection it was for swimming.

Splashing in a cold lake was not my idea of a real swell time, even influenced by haute couture.

My excuses to Dad as we walked toward the water were rock solid: I just ate breakfast, didn’t he need to stack wood, and sharks. After a disbelievable explanation about digestion and the lack of freshwater sharks in Lake Cold-bee, my Dad jumped in with no hesitation.

“Is it cold?” I asked.

“Only for a second,” he said, “just like bathwater.”

“OK!”

My mom pushed up her saucer sunglasses to watch from the picnic table. My sisters, lubed for tanning with commoners Bain de Soleil, baby oil and iodine, sat up. The radio on their blanket announced “Next, OREO Speedwagon ‘Time For Me to Fly.'”

In a family where heckling was an acceptable pastime, my brother clucked.

“Bok … bok, bok, bok.”

What I needed was a big take-off. I backed up to the lawn, crouched down, rocking slowly back and forth.

“One, two, three, GO! ” I yelled, running full-tilt for the end of the dock.

My Dad raised his dripping arms to catch me. He smiled.

My heels slammed onto the planks, until a foot from the end I hit the brakes.

“BOK, BOK, BOK!” my brother yelled.

I shook my head, staring at the lake. The sun arched higher. I sat down. My Dad dried off and went inside for lunch.

I wiggled out of my life preserver. The sun began to burn my shoulders, I watched the perch and sat.

My mother silently left me the ultimate emotional equalizer: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white bread, and a cup of Tang. She slipped a T-shirt over my head and left me to my existential crisis.

I sat all day. As the sun slipped below the trees, I was suddenly hungry. I looked at my food but by then, the bread had gone stale and there was a fly in my Tang.

Over the years in moments of reckless bravery I remember that day on the dock, and I launch myself into the unknown.

But, I leap just as far when I sit down, and choose stillness and do not jump at all.