Illustration by Mary Kirkpatrick
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One well-below-freezing morning last February, I walked through the grounds of Ontario Place, bundled up against the chill. Trees were frosted sculptures, and large chunks of ice floated in the lake. I stopped to take a photo, and that’s when I saw them: a group of people bobbing up and down in the water.
I didn’t quite believe my eyes. But there they were, wearing toques and gloves with their bathing suits. They held hands and bounced up and down in choppy, ice-flecked waves, lifting their faces to the sky with full-throated whoops and yells. Watching them, I felt a surge of vicarious adrenaline. They looked and sounded so free.
I’ve always found cold water thrilling. I grew up in England, swimming in unheated pools and distinctly untropical seas. My favourite Ontario swimming hole is spring-fed, bone-chilling even in summer heat. I once spent so long in the clear, cold waters of Georgian Bay that I still had the shivers three hours after a hot shower and a massive portion of fish and chips.
Stupid? Maybe. Exhilarating? Definitely. But something more profound, too. Or at least, something visceral. The shock of cold water, the way it jolts me, is like flipping a switch. It seems to reset my body and soul.
And last winter, I definitely needed a reset. Like many others, I had struggled with my mental health during the pandemic. Two-plus years of COVID-19, combined with some personal losses and the generally broken state of the world, had led me to the slowly creeping edge of depression. I woke up most mornings with a dull, grey feeling as I forced myself out of bed to start the day. Usually, exercise is my therapy, but it had been getting progressively harder to motivate myself. I was sinking, like a heavy stone in a still pool. I needed something, but I didn’t know what, until that February day.
The ice warriors emerged from the lake, their skin steaming. They were euphoric, laughing, hugging each other – and trembling like spent marathoners. They towelled off, pulled on layers of warm clothes and began to dance to music from a portable sound system. I felt myself grinning, and called out: “You guys are awesome!” One woman smiled back and said, “Come and join us! We’re here every Monday at 7 a.m. You can sign up online.” She gave me the details, and when I got home I signed up and received a confirmation e-mail telling me what to bring.
The night before my first dip, I was excited and nervous. Was I really doing this? Cold water is one thing, but this was a whole other level. Should I back out? Or what if I showed up and no one was there? I got up in the dark and checked the forecast: it was minus-14 C, or minus-20 C with Toronto’s notorious wind chill. The e-mail had said that they’d notify me in case of inclement weather. I checked for a cancellation message, but there wasn’t one. Yikes. Apparently, the dip was on.
When I drove to the meeting spot, the woman who’d invited me was standing near a handful of cars at the end of a mostly empty parking lot. She waved me over: “I bet you didn’t think I’d make it,” I said. “Oh no,” she answered, looking me in the eye. “I knew you would.”
Maybe she did. Or maybe she was counting on the ever-increasing popularity of cold dipping, which has become even more of a thing since then. You may have seen the ads for ice baths and the social-media posts touting cold therapy as the cure for everything from arthritis to heartbreak. I’m generally skeptical about wellness trends, but what did I have to lose, other than body heat?
A young man led us through introductions, then breathing exercises. Not everyone was masked, and I crossed my fingers that we were all vaccinated. There were other relative newcomers, but I was the only first-timer. Our guide asked us to think about his sister: That day was the anniversary of her death, and she’d inspired his love of the water, he said. Maybe it was his sweet sincerity, but it didn’t feel strange to be commemorating a stranger. We all observed a moment of silence, and then we headed to get undressed. I was grateful to hear there were change rooms, until: ”Leave your towels,” he told us. Er, what? Nothing to protect us against the elements? But no one else batted an eye.
So, along with the others, I ran in my bathing suit and water shoes down to the water, my skin goose-bumped and stinging from the cold. Together we jumped up and down in a kind of frenzied warmup, and then we held hands and charged into the lake. The air outside was so cold that the water felt okay. Not warm, but not excruciating. We dipped down until just our heads and hands were above water, and yelled into the sky. Teeth chattering, heart rates slowing, fingers and toes going numb, we stayed there for somewhere between two and five minutes.
Knowing it was my first time, people cheered me on. When we ran back out of the water my skin was bright red, like I’d been scalded. It felt amazing. After we’d all changed, we met back on the beach, and danced and sang by a small fire to warm up. I was stupid with cold, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so happy.
I went from dipping once or twice a week to almost every day, and I’ve come to crave that moment when the cold becomes a second skin and my internal voice goes silent. Apart from the thrill of those first heart-stopping plunges, which, ironically, saved me from going under, what has drawn me is the people.
We laughed together, often, but from the scraps of autobiography we’ve shared, I know I’m not the only one to count mental-health issues among life’s challenges. I have no sense of being judged by this diverse community of generous, unselfconscious, open-hearted souls. In return, I found myself freed from judging myself or anyone else. Holding hands in the freezing lake that buoyed us, we looked out for each other last winter and will do so through this one.
It won’t fix everything in our lives, or the world at large – but for some reason, it helps. At the end of each session I return home feeling stronger, lighter, more able to cope. As another winter sets in, I’m more than ready to embrace the cold again.
Diana Bryden lives in Toronto.