I was looking at pictures of deep snow in Spain, posted by friends of mine on Facebook, and I thought to myself, “Okay, THAT’S cold.”
You may think that’s an obvious observation, but I had to make some sort of comparison to the weather we’ve recently had in Cayman.
When did we become so thin-skinned? How is it that when the mercury dives to the low-70s, we’re suddenly carrying on like our sun’s left the galaxy?
I remember cold fronts in past years, when people dressed like the Michelin Man – purple hands clutching their Heinekens – braved 68 degrees F at Sunset House’s seafront bar.
Some of those swaddled patrons were fresh off the boat from places not known for their balmy winters, like good ol’ Canada. Surely anyone who has survived a brisk -40 in Edmonton would find January in the Caribbean a breeze?
I’ll be the first to admit I’m prone to exaggerating, but as I stood on the beach for an event in December and exclaimed to a friend of mine that it was “freezing”, I was probably really overstating it. Apparently my criteria for freezing is when I can wear my hair down and long-sleeved velvet outfits without wilting; when I don’t have to mix mascara with epoxy resin to prevent it from sweating into my eyes and onto my cheeks.
Up until 2019, it had been years since I had dipped a toe in any body of water. It wasn’t a conscious decision, it just worked out that way. A combination of contemplating bikini hair being ripped from its follicles by a wax strip and swimsuits that cut into me like butcher’s twine probably contributed to the aversion.
Anyway, once I had access to a private pool, I rediscovered my love of swimming and enjoyed the kind of exercise that doesn’t slam a shin into a kneecap.
Friends who usually visit the island in the summer every year had once told me that they would never come down in winter because the sea was “way too cold” in that season. I confess I thought them wimpy… until I got back into a regular personal marine schedule and got to sample the experience firsthand.
In September, you could have boiled an egg in that water. Come November, it was comfortable – not too hot and not too cold; baby bear’s porridge. (I could expand and go down the less-travelled discussion road of swimming in porridge, but no.)
In early December, there was a noticeable chill to be felt, and by Christmas, I was scanning the horizon for an icebreaker.
Of course, I wasn’t going to admit to my fellow shoal members that my teeth were chattering. As squeals of pain from friends bouncing around in ankle-deep surf assaulted my ears, I put on my big girl pants (not literally) and marched into the frigid liquid, announcing, “It’s fine! Don’t be silly.” The quiver in my voice was barely noticeable.
It took me back to my youth in Dunmore East, southern Ireland. Before my family moved to the Cayman Islands in 1975, we spent four years in that picturesque fishing village. Mum would often take us to the beach and we kids would go swimming. She’d be waiting to envelop us in towels when we finally emerged, lips blue.
I thought nothing of it, really, until we vacationed there after a number of years settled in the Caribbean.
I couldn’t wait to relive the memories, so as soon as we had the chance, I headed to that Irish beach, ready for a swim.
For starters, my feet were not prepared for the pebbled shore. Now coddled by the powder-soft sands of Seven Mile, they went into shock as I pounded them over something definitely not resembling baking flour. Was this personal? Was I still upset that they hadn’t supported me in pursuing my fledgling ballet career?
My toes, turning their full attention to dealing with this foreign surface, were therefore looking the other way when I plunged them into the Celtic Sea, unable to warn the rest of my body about imminent hypothermia. I made it in up to my chest before survival instincts kicked in.
Like something out of a ‘Monty Python’ skit, the film reel sped up, and as quickly as I was in the water, I was out of it again. How had I ever managed this as a child? How had I not ended up on the operating table?
I left Ireland with a fresh appreciation of its people’s hardiness.
Back to modern times: I know I’ve bored you with this information already, but I’ve been successfully losing weight for a while, and part of that success has been due to exercising almost daily in the pool. My desire to keep my losing (winning?) streak going has so far managed to override my desire to recoil in terror every time I go for a dip. It ain’t fun, but the numbness sets in after about 10 minutes and I feel like Rose from ‘Titanic’.
You may very well ask why I don’t just get a pool heater installed (housemate and best friend Lynne is certainly not shy about speaking up).
I did ask for a quote from a professional, and yada-yada-yada, I’d rather buy a drysuit.
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