Getting Wet Was the Easiest Part

The nighttime benefits of cold plunging are worth the exposure

Kelley Korbin, post-cold plunge, and pre-pricey swim parka

I’m not a sweet, young thing who would attempt a clichéd act of seduction. My demographic is middle-aged, and my get-up was less trench coat and thigh-high leather boots, and more black nylon poncho and-neoprene booties. Still, I was stark naked under my coat as I recently took an early-morning walk of shame.

It was my girlfriend who had encouraged the hobby that led to this out-of-character behaviour. “Just do it,” she said, followed by a dose of the kind of peer pressure that had me dropping acid with her in grade ten. “Everyone’s doing it. Celebrities do it. In my group we even take photos and post them in a group chat.”

Photos? This was supposed to be an incentive?

“I’m out,” I said.

“Agreed. At first it’s hard to get into it,” said my cool friend, “but once you take the plunge you’ll wonder why you don’t do it more often.”

Her enthusiasm prompted a little internet research.

Turns out I already had everything I needed. That is, unless I wanted some accessories to improve the experience—available, with a click of a mouse, to be delivered to my door in nondescript brown-paper packaging.

Proponents say it will cure just about any ailment. It’s supposed to boost mental health. It might lower blood pressure, decrease the risk of diabetes and reduce inflammation. It’s considered a workout. Apparently, all I had to lose was my muffin top. And, as I would learn, my dignity.

Whether any of the benefits are legit, one thing is sure. Athletes are doing it. Real professional and Olympic athletes. They do it all the time.

I’ve always wanted to be an athlete. I was sold.

But my pal lived far away, and I didn’t want to go solo. Nope. If I was going to dip into the icy (okay, cold) Salish Sea, I was going with a posse.

So I went online and found a cluster of cold plungers who meet at a nearby beach every morning at 7:45.

I bought booties and matching black neoprene gloves to hold my Raynaud’s disease at bay; Raynaud’s constricts my blood flow and turns my toes and fingers white and useless in the cold. My tender blood vessels seem to have inherited my hyper-sensitive personality.

I arrived at the beach at the appointed time, where eight other daring souls were clustered in the warming morning sun. The beach gave off the inviting musky, seaweedy aroma that smells like home to this West Coast gal. I followed the flock as they donned toques, disrobed to their bathing suits, and walked straight into the ocean.

Gasping, I crossed my arms tight to shield my chest from the frigid barrage. When my feet just barely grazed the pebbled bottom, I shivered and forced myself to breathe as everyone around me casually chatted.

Finally, at some imperceptible (to me) signal, the little gang turned and made for the shore.

I hunkered in that 51-degree water for five whole minutes—a triumph. That is, until I got to the log where we’d dumped our belongings. As my fellow plungers ducked under pricey swim ponchos to change incognito, I realized the impracticality of my terry beach towel. I’ll spare the details of my not-so-presto-change-o, but suffice to say my new friends have seen more of me than I’d been prepared to show on a first date. Thankfully someone had snapped the obligatory group shot before my Janet-Jackson-worthy wardrobe malfunction.

Early the next morning, any lingering humiliation had been washed away in the wake of my first full night’s sleep in a decade—a podium performance for this menopause-weary woman. Given the result, another plunge was a no-brainer. Still, I wasn’t quite ready to commit to the parka purchase, as I’d learned they can cost upward of $250. Besides, I had a black rain poncho I was sure would do the trick. I shoved it into my bag and headed to the beach. This time it was pouring. Only two other brave souls were waiting at the log. I undressed and followed them into the deep. To my surprise, the water felt warmer. Was I already an athlete?

Back on land, I smiled for the camera and ducked under my poncho. Unfortunately, it was narrower than I’d imagined, and the nylon was as inflexible as my frozen muscles. My newfound confidence floundered as I struggled to wriggle out of my sopping one-piece, finally flinging it into a clump on the sand. As I grabbed my bag of dry clothes, I noticed the other two women were dressed and ready to decamp but clearly too polite to leave me there exposed and alone in the rain.

“Having some issues?” said one, just barely holding back a snigger.

I took in her loose hoodie, sweatpants, and practical flip flops, then looked to the pile of workout tights, sports bra, socks and sneakers I’d brought. I knew I was sunk. I had barely gotten my swimsuit off; it would be all but impossible to tug any of those body-hugging garments onto my damp skin. So I held my head high, wrestled my feet back into the wet, sandy booties, gathered my stuff, and squish-squashed my way to the parking lot.

Ten minutes later, I sat in my driveway laughing as I peeled my bare thighs from the leather seat of my little hatchback, grateful to have made it home without being stopped by the police and arrested for public indecency.

Again, I slept through the night. I was hooked. Cold water immersion may not be the panacea proponents claim, but in our increasingly metaversed and cyber-isolated world, it feels great to start the day in community. Best of all, taking the plunge has forced me not to take myself so seriously. At 60, that’s a lesson long overdue.

My fancy new swim parka is scheduled to arrive at my door in its brown-paper package in three-to-five days.

Kelley Korbin recently completed her MFA in creative nonfiction at the University of King’s College in Halifax, Canada. She is working on her first book, a reported memoir about medical assistance in dying entitled Exit Stage Rite: Lessons for a Brand New Way of Dying. Kelley recently jumped on the cold plunging bandwagon in her hometown of Vancouver, BC and finds her wet, frigid mornings to be a welcome and surprisingly social accompaniment to her solitary writing practice. She’s been published in the Globe and Mail, CBC, Chatelaine Magazine, Ski Canada Magazine and The Jewish Independent Newspaper.