[Fiction] Something in the Water

By Patricia Gimer

 It was a calm, sunny day for the Polar Bear Dip, but the air was bone chilling. The starting gun exploded and Anne propelled herself toward the icy waves. When a spectator—a large man in a bloody-mouthed shark costume—proclaimed, “And . . . here . . . comes . . . Marilyn Monroe!” Anne laughed. 

Her one-piece, white bathing suit with spaghetti straps tied behind her neck did look like something Marilyn might have worn. An online purchase delivered last summer, she thought it a bit small on top but, intending to lose weight, chose not to return it. This first morning of January she tried it on again and—emboldened by her daughter’s endorsement— “Mom, what do you mean you don’t have a decent swimsuit? You look great in that one,” Anne decided she could briskly enter the water and cover up later with the towel she’d leave onshore. The shark-man’s announcement was embarrassing but, admittedly, a welcome distraction from what she was about to do. 

After becoming suddenly single at sixty-five, Anne found courage in recalling the example she’d set for her young children as they coped with the challenges of their father’s disability. “We’re having an adventure!” she’d say during their toughest times. Over the years, the saying became their family mantra. 

As Anne adapted to her new life as a single senior, she accumulated adventures of her own. In the past five years she’d learned to dance West Coast Swing, Waltz, Salsa, and—her favorite—The Tango. She’d attended cooking classes in Japan, Psychology seminars in Australia/New Zealand, and a Writing retreat in Italy. She had published short stories and poetry, written a memoir, and was nearing the completion of her break-out novel. But Anne’s To-Do list was far from complete. In fact, it kept growing. Today she was checking off the annual Polar Bear Dip.

Anne intended to follow the advice of her adult children who had the benefit of PBD experience and had encouraged her participation for years. “Hit the water running, Mom, and don’t stop until your head is under water. The rules say your head must go under.”

She intended to keep running until her head was submerged. But, when Anne’s legs felt the ocean’s icy sting, her sprint stalled to a halt. Now, here she stood—ice blocks for thighs—in the numbingly cold Pacific Ocean off of Cayucos, California. She trembled uncontrollably, questioning her judgement. 

Why am I just standing here, trying to look nonchalant? This must be what a senior moment feels like. 

Scanning the splashing throng of thousands of costumed bodies—mermaids with exaggerated breasts, the octopus, the pirate with his enormous sword—Anne searched for her son and daughter who’d been at her side when the starting gun sounded. Now that she’d finally agreed to join them for this annual event, her children were nowhere to be found. 

I’ll catch up with them later at the pier.

Unable to move forward or backward, with every passing second she felt more ensconced, more paralyzed.

 I could freeze to death before I get up the nerve to go any deeper. This is why they said to keep running. It’s not the cold that paralyzes you, it’s stopping to think about the cold.

What would Marilyn do? 

Anne went a little deeper. Up to her armpits now, she wanted to quit. 

Could being this cold . . . for this long . . .  produce a heart attack in someone my age? I should probably know the answer to that, but would it be too humiliating to just turn around and get out of here? 

That was when Anne noticed the enormous swell coming right toward her. She knew in an instant there was no keeping her head dry now. She glimpsed longingly at the shore, closed her eyes, held her breath, and braced herself. 

The monster wave struck the back of her head, violently pitching Anne forward. Tumbling uncontrollably, her mouth, nose, and ears filled with sandy-fishy-saltwater. Tossed about by surf that pummeled her from every direction, Anne wondered whether she might drown. Eventually, her frozen feet found the ocean floor. She sprang up out of the water—disoriented, sputtering, and spitting grit. But never so exhilarated. 

She immediately checked the status of her swimsuit. 

Straps still holding. Thank God! And thank you, Ralph Lauren.

As she made her way to shore, a monitor, who had witnessed the whole debacle, greeted Anne with a smile, sang “Congratulations!” and handed her a piece of yellow paper from the stack in her arms. Looking triumphantly at her official Polar Bear Dip Certificate, Anne chuckled. 

Apparently, it doesn’t matter how your head gets wet. 

Still coughing and trying to regain her composure, Anne snatched up her beach towel and wrapped it tightly around her trembling torso. She pranced proudly back to the foot of the pier where her flush-faced children waited, wild-haired and wide-eyed with surprise. Waving her certificate, Anne crowed, “I did it, I did it!”

“Whoo-hoo!” her daughter said. “Way to go, Momma!”

“Well, things didn’t go exactly as planned . . . but—”

“But, Mom,” her son interrupted, “you were in the water longer than any of us . . . looked like you were having an adventure!” 

There were high fives and laughter, and frozen-body hugs all around.

The next morning, Anne awoke with the first signs of what would turn into a three-week respiratory illness. 

Must have been something in the water. 

After she recovered, people asked, “Would you do it again?”

“Absolutely, but I’d wear a different bathing suit next time. Something more me.”

Patricia Gimer, a retired, licensed psychotherapist, who has been writing because she has to for as long as she can remember, is a published author of poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, and profiles of community leaders. Her break-out novel is in the final phases of revision. Since 1980, Pat has felt blessed to live on the scenic Central Coast of California where she nurtures her family, friends, garden, creativity, and a little red Cockapoo named Mylo Giovanni.