On my birthday this year, March 15th, I jumped into the Atlantic Ocean.
I am not sure what the pull was that seemed to command this cold plunge, but it was exhilarating, private, awakening.
And I have continued. Thirteen times. Driving up to the beach. Grabbing my towels. Walking with fierce determination, hurriedly stripping down to my bathing suit and walking into that freezing water like it is my last time. Going under fast and coming up shaken and alive. I walk out, wrap a towel around my head, take off my top, wrap the other towel around my body, slide my nice comfortable Ugg slippers on and traipse back to my car. My skin, my organs, my cells all on high alert.
Why Am I Doing This?
I try to put into words what this incessant need has been. Is it a mirroring of a new character I have recently introduced to a fictional story I have been working on who did her own daily plunge in the Atlantic? Am I channeling her from a past life? I ask myself as she shows up in my head as I march from car to beach.
Is it this direct need to temper down the heat that has been sitting like a rectangle in the middle of my body for quite some time now?
Maybe it is as simple as the dullness of the waning winter months pleading for exit.
Though I have hesitated to post any social media picture, the pull of marketing to promote books is as strong as the current. So I post one photo each time which has invited people to ask me why. I have no explanation.
Wake Up and Settle Down
This plunge feels like a way up call. A call to action, yet a call to freeze in my tracks. And here lies the conundrum. Both seem right. A call to wake up and a call to settle down.
The weather is warming now so it feels less extreme, but it is still freezing. I am not trying to make this a thing, I am not trying to gather the masses to start some chick gathering. I use this plunge to be alone with me. Perhaps this is all this is. Me and the Atlantic. Fierce, strong, unpredictable.