The sea temperature off New York in winter plummets to the low single digits. Good reason to stay on dry land, right? Wrong, as James Blick reports.
A tanker hogs the skyline in the blue bay. The beach is empty, except for an old man jogging bare-chested through the snow, scattering the gulls. Up ahead are the skeletal remains of the Wonder Wheel and the Cyclone roller-coaster - reminders of a more joyful time in this once funfair capital of the world. I continue along the Coney Island boardwalk until I hit the New York Aquarium Education Hall.
Every Sunday between November and April, the Coney Island Polar Bears meet in this big brick hall, before taking an electrifying dip in the frigid Atlantic. It is America's oldest winter bathing organisation.
Visiting bathers are welcome and I thought, what the hell.
The hall is soon reverberating with the racket of 60 Polar Bears catching-up and stripping down.
Pulling off my jeans, I get talking to Robbie. A photographer, she spent 15 years shooting the Bears before deciding, one New Year's Eve, to join them.
On my other side is Tom, a fit-looking swimming instructor in his 50s. He goes by the nickname "Iceman" and has it printed on the back of his T-shirt. Tom tells me he's been down to check the water temperature. It's 1degC. I ask him what to expect. He says the ocean will take me, shake me and spit me out. And if I decide to put my head under, it'll feel like my head's going to pop off.
The safety of my head is in the back of my mind when, moments later, club president Dennis hands me a full-page waiver. I have to indemnify the Bears in case I experience a "negative reaction" (defined as "loss of consciousness, hypothermia, heart attack ... or death").
I sign the form, Dennis blows a whistle and we all file out into the cold morning.
Passers-by in big coats stare as we cross the boardwalk in togs, towels and dressing gowns.
The Bear beside me, a dead ringer for Robert Downey jun, is wearing a boxing robe and walks with a hunched swagger. He tells me no matter how many times you do it, you never get used to it. Other than that, nobody talks much. Everyone seems a bit nervous.
"Take it off!"
Near the water, a grey-haired Bear rallies us. Members rip off woolly hats and drop dressing gowns to the snow. We launch into star jumps: "I don't know what I've been told, Polar Bears like it cold. Sound off ...".
Dennis blows his whistle again. The man beside me fist-pumps the air and shrieks a battle cry. We all run towards the shining water. But as the freezing Atlantic soaks into my sneakers (which I'm wearing for insulation), I falter. Luckily Robbie appears beside me. She hooks her arm around mine and, as she pulls me into the ocean, she tells me it's okay to scream.
The Polar Bears were formed in 1903 by early bodybuilder, health nut and publishing mogul Bernarr Macfadden.
Bernarr (nee Bernard - he thought "Bernarr" sounded more like a lion's roar) founded the industry-defining Physical Culture magazine (with articles like "Shall I Marry Him? - A Lesson in Eugenics"). His slogan was "Weakness is a Crime - Don't be a Criminal".
Membership has surged in recent years. The younger Bears seemed mainly in it for the lark.
Matt, Hillary and Angela, in their 20s, told me they make a day of it. After a recent swim, Matt got a tattoo and then all three went for brunch. The middle-aged Bears talked about a weekly reset button, something to relieve the stress of New York life. Dennis summed it up: "Families, relationships, sex, rent, jobs - you can't worry about those things when you're in the water".
The older members spoke of more far-reaching benefits.
Tony, a big man with a walrus moustache and a rich Brooklyn brogue, began passing out in 1989. Doctors found patches of plaque the size of quarters on his brain. But since Tony joined the club eight years ago, the plaque has shrunk considerably.
I was challenged to guess the age of another member, Lewis.
"Fifty-one," I said.
"He's 68! Doesn't he look great!"
Lewis joined the club 27 years ago, when, with severe arthritis, he needed crutches.
"Now I don't need those crutches for nothing!"
UP to my nipples in seawater, I hold my arms above my head and scream. Most of the Bears are screaming too.
And raising your arms is normal, Robbie later explains.
"Anything you can keep out of the water, you instinctively do."
I soon stop screaming as rapid, shallow breathing sets in.
A sign, Robbie also later explains, of the inevitable stage-one hypothermia.
Oddly, the water doesn't feel cold. Rather, it's sharp and brutal, like nails.
A large female Bear aqua-jogs past me. Others toss a ball about.
An older member is trance-like, focused deeply on his experience. But most just hoot and holler like wild things; children in adult bodies, lost in their saltwater rumpus.
We form a big hand-held circle, a weekly ritual. But there's not much to it, just more yelling and howling, though now all sharing in each other's elation.
When the circle breaks, I decide to go under. The icy Atlantic drains into my ears and stings my face. And, as Tom predicted, it feels like my head's going to pop off.
I surface and my body takes over. It's had enough and it decides to get out. Staggering through the thicket of leaping bodies, I stumble ashore, flopping about like a shipwreck survivor.
Again, Tom was right. I'd been spat out.
A towel is offered, but I wave it away. My nerve endings are bewildered. Blood is pumping to my vitals. My body is on fire.
Soon the Bears begin to come ashore. Some dry off while others stand in the shallows with their arms wide open, basking in the winter sun. They chat and laugh; relieved at having put paid to their Sunday sacrament.
Robbie suggests I get changed and, if I like, I can join her and her husband on the boardwalk for beer and Coney Island hot dogs.
- Travel writer James Blick is a former Aucklander, now living in Madrid.
