Photo by Mark Mamerow
Article by Mark Mamerow
Mara and I arrived at Wahl Avenue and parked at about 11:30 am—X minus 30 minutes to the January 1st Polar Bear plunge at Milwaukee’s Bradford Beach. People were getting out of their cars. You could identify the Polar Bears. They carried cloth shopping bags of towels and shoes, and wore sensible hats and galoshes. Everyone carried that air of grim determination. LIke DPW workers heading to the site of a frozen water main. Or transit employees sharpening their tools for a day of scraping gum off the bottom of bus seats. Or Jerry Augustine trudging out to the bullpen at County Stadium.
The atmosphere below, on the beach, wasn’t much more celebratory. Everybody looked the way I felt–nervous and overmatched. Amazingly, no drunks to be seen. Just somber Milwaukeeans, carrying out their duty. And the usual overexcited dogs.
Some dude was perched high above the crowd on a 14-foot ladder, wearing a jacket emblazoned “Official Starter”. As if! Is there an official starter to gravity? Does somebody shoot a starting gun for the wildebeest’s epic journey across the African plains? I don’t think so! We scoffed at the cheek of this imposter.
The wind whipped the surf. Ducks bobbed in the waves, a hundred yards out. Somebody flew a drone. The clock ticked toward noon. It was about 33 degrees, with a comforting 20 mph wind to keep us from getting too warm. Let’s face it. The crowd was unhappy and freezing, sullen like the partiers at a 37-degree Brewers opener.
At 5 til, we stripped to our skivvies. The MFD dive team fanned out into the drink. I was so nervous. This was my first plunge since 2018. Mara reminded me that the temperature then was 1 degree Fahrenheit. So this was comparatively balmy. Finally, without regard to the importunations of the “official starter”, the crowd surged lakeward in one spontaneous mass.
Mara and I splashed in with the group. I didn’t wait long–dunked my body & head in 3 feet of water and turned for shelter. Amazingly, it really wasn’t that cold. I dunked the football in the end zone a few times, strutted like Rocky at the top of the steps, and felt great! Meanwhile, Mara was wandering out in the surf, looking disoriented and confused. Finally she dove in and clambered shoreward. Turns out she wasn’t wearing her contacts, and with uncorrected MamerVision you see only shapes and colors. Despite her daze, she finally made it back to the towels.
Some old ladies behind us (geez, they must have been in their 60s!) offered us champagne. It was great. Invigorated– and almost able to feel our feet–we made our way up the bluff.
Another year in the books. The closest I can come to a count is 21. We’ve done it since 1994, with maybe 7 or 8 misses. Next year, I’m bringing more socks! And I won’t be as nervous.