I grew up in Long Island, N.Y., and in the mid-'80s my parents had an in-ground pool built in our backyard. Unlike in sunny Florida, pools up north are covered each winter, with the grand reopening becoming a cherished ritual of spring.
One year, spring came a little early when some cinder blocks my dad had used to secure the cover fell into the pool. For some insane reason, we decided that as soon as it was close to warm, my brother, father and I would go in after them. When the day arrived, the water temperature was a frosty 54 degrees. I remember descending the stairs into the icy water, thinking that when my balls hit they would be sucked into my abdomen and out my nose. (Hey, I was about 11 years old at the time.) After about five minutes I adjusted, and I even remember thinking that it wasn't so bad.
Then We Got Out. Holy Shit! Walking Across Frigid Brick Pavers On Bare Wet Feet Is Not For The Faint Of Heart. Despite My Mother's Protestations, After 30 Seconds Of Faux Drying I Sprinted Into The House.
This article appears in May 10-16, 2006.