My Own Polar Vortex

The Seahawks were everywhere.

People passed us on the street decked out in cloudy navy blue and lime green. That ubiquitous styl­ized bird’s head turned up everywhere, from the back windows of station wagons to the hairy chests of thir­tysomethings in swimming trunks. Flashing store signs, after informing passing cars about clearance sales and zero-percent financing, trumpeted “Go Seahawks!”, as did more than one public transit vehicle.

And it was just killing a friend of mine, even more than the cold was killing me.

The Kennewick Polar Plunge. The premise is sim­ple yet utterly terrifying – raise money for the Special Olympics by jumping into a thirty-nine-degree river. I’m not sure quite how I got roped into it, but there we were last Saturday morning, a cluster of six, slogging towards the event site while arguing about the NFC.

Somewhere in the neigh­borhood of six hundred brave souls turned out that day to jump. Volunteers were everywhere. News crews, firemen, paramedics, the Horse Heaven Round- Up Rodeo Royalty, and Miss Tri-Cities swelled the numbers of those present. We were jammed together on the asphalt-topped gath­ering area like sardines.

And we were still freez­ing.

There were costume con­tests. The biggest donation- gatherers were announced. And then the plunging be­gan.

Representitives from the local law-enforcement branches jumped first, fol­lowed by the large teams. Our group – myself, my Se­ahawk despising friend, my neighbor, my mother, my Seahawk-despising friend’s mother (who does not de­spise the Seahawks), and Joanna Lanning, the lady who got Waitsburg started plunging – was too small to be considered a team, so we stood in line in our plunging outfits.

It was my first time plunging, so I decided to wear something crazy that upped the cold-tolerence ante – a rainbow-colored bikini. I had never worn a bikini before.

I was an icicle before I so much as touched the dock. The air hovered around freezing, and neither my choice of clothing nor the ongoing game of “Bet My Foot Is Colder Than Yours” helped much.

But eventually, our time came. We lined up on the dock. Somebody with a megaphone counted “Three! Two! One! Jump!”

The first sensation I re­called was water up my nose, which always hurts. But then the cold set in a split second later. My diaphragm seized up, my lungs lost their air, and one thought echoed in my mind: Get to the surface. Now.

However, reaching the surface and staying on the surface were two different tasks entirely. Sadly, my diaphragm wasn’t the only muscle in my body that had cramped up. My arms and legs – both important body parts concerning the task of staying afloat – were literal­ly frozen stiff, and my lungs weren’t exactly at the top of their game, either. But with a boost from adrenaline and a ten-yard tow from good ol’ Mom, I made it out.

The event brought in nearly $70,000. I was per­sonally responsible for .05% of that figure, having col­lected the majestic sum of $35.

Also, I should note that not long after I got back home, the bikini took a solo plunge into the Goodwill bucket.