Y2 Nuts
Rick Bolger
Bounding up a ramp near the southern tip of Long Beach Island to survey the wide expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, a quiet "wow" was about all we could muster. With my companion, TJ, we were enjoying a carefully planned millenium celebration with our respective families, and had stolen away from the boisterous rental house to enjoy a quiet moment with the sea.
"Whoa...wow." An exclamatory tone was unnecessary and would've sounded absurd in the context of the moment. It was our first look at the ocean on this particular trip, and neither of us were prepared for the combination of empty beach and raw power of the winter surf. Waves rolled in with an unbroken fury, curling over like the "pipeline" scenes on Hawaii Five-O.
After a moment of awe and pondering the beauty of the surf, I quietly told TJ that if he were truly serious about a New Year's swim, I was inspired enough to join him.
"You think? Y' up for a dip?" He replied in the short, clipped sentences used by old friends that don't need to fully articulate their thoughts to get a point across. TJ vowed to celebrate the new century with a swim, and seemed strangely pleased and encouraged that someone was willing to share in his lunacy.
"Look at that...beautiful...definitely," was my quiet response. Then, squinting at the sun and realizing how unseasonably warm it was, I added: "If we're gonna do this, we oughtta do it today."
"Pretty nice out," his reply.
We somehow turned from the riveting scene (lunch awaited) and headed back to the car, alone in our thoughts but moving a little faster now due to the excitement that lay ahead. As we walked, TJ casually mentioned something that meant little at the time.
"It seems really strange that there aren't any seagulls around."
The ladies arrive at the beach...a lovely sight for a lovely day.
After lunch we suited up, or rather, he suited up and I sorted through my luggage for something that might resemble swim trunks. I settled on a pair of loose fitting, stringless sweat shorts that had long ago been demoted to pajama status.
The kids, from left to right, Ally, Greg, Brynna, Gina arrive at the beach. So far so good.
Wives and children left for the short walk to the beach while I lingered to find a towel. Lagging behind, I could see them ahead pause and chat with a very little boy standing on the street and looking rather as if he had left the proper confines of his appointed play area. He was enthralled at seeing four children at one time. After all, there are undoubtedly very few playmates on LBI during the winter, and here was a whole pack! Once our families passed by, the urchin remained on the curb despite his mother's pleas. Why go back to Mom? First, a whole gang of children...now a big overweight barefoot man wearing pajama shorts and a towel! The little boy was probably wondering what was next, and must have reasoned that if the trend continued it would surely involve a trained animal act.
Time can play cruel tricks on people. At the moment the young lad's mother decided to give up her calls and investigate, I arrived at the curb. At the very same moment, friends and family -- my only visible link to normalcy -- disappeared over the crest of a dune. The young woman yanked her son back as if he were about to step in front of a bus, looked up and down the avenue, and stared at me with pure horror before beating a hasty retreat. I have no doubt that her husband returned home that evening to a near hysterical spouse insistent on enhancing the security of junior's play kennel.
While humorous, the event clarified the insanity of the whole escapade. I had grand plans to be oceanside for the new millenium, and repeatedly pleaded (with no success) that we should spend the stroke of midnight on the beach, to better remember the momentous occasion. This afternoon swim, however, was beginning to look like a wacky idea even from my eccentric point of view.
It was our finest hour. Standing on the beach, we were ready to make history...and my comrade promptly picked up his VHS camera for one of those "here we are at the beach" videos highlighted by repeated panning and zooming.
The event that unfolded would have probably aged nicely into one of those legendary tales that grows more outrageous with each telling. The video camera, however, would reduce it to a simple record of what it was: Two men behaving like idiots. Me, a hulking mass repeatedly pulling up his shorts. TJ, at about half my size, standing alongside. The whole thing looked very cartoonish. Apparently we spent a substantial amount of time jointly plotting our approach at water's edge, pointing here and there as if just the right point of entry were required. (I did not recall this, but the tape sez so).
This may have gone on for some time, because eventually the tape jumps to our first charge into the surf. After alternately running and screaming, splashing and retreating, and more running, splashing, and screaming, TJ went underwater first, then I after a prolonged pause to relieve the intense pain in my legs.
According to the camera we periodically "checked" our privates on each retreat. It was over...we survived.
The National Weather Service officially recorded the ocean temperature as 47º Fahrenheit; I learned firsthand just how cold 47 degrees is. The "Polar Bear" Club, which has popularized this tradition, loudly bemoaned the fact that it was warmer than usual; much too warm for proper New Year's bathing. Standing on the shore in searing pain, I vowed that it would be my last winter swim. I knew that I was smarter than those polar bear enthusiasts, but somehow, dumber than a flock of seagulls.
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Hey! Take me back to the Life Machine (that's the index page) or, why not Join a trip to Red Byrd Arch in the Clifty Wilderness, KY
