Better in their words…

What an article!!  Talk about the title of my blog… Great!

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By BILL STREEVER
Craig George

An Iñupiat hunter once told me the secret of survival in the Arctic Ocean. “Stay in the boat,” he said. “Don’t go in the water.”

But I plan to go in the water, to plunge in from the northernmost point in the United States, out near Point Barrow, Alaska, the nearest bit of American mainland to the North Pole.

For Barrow visitors, going in the water is something of a tradition, a ritual for the young at heart and the easily bored. But swimming is not Barrow’s sole attraction. There is the novelty of 24-hour light in summer and 24-hour darkness in winter. There are traditional Iñupiat Eskimo festivals—Piuraagiaqta to celebrate spring and Nalukataq for the whale harvest. There is the land itself, flat ground and subtle hills rendered treeless by the permanently frozen soil. There are Iñupiat carvings and handmade fur gloves. There are polar bears.

I am here for science workshops. Also, I am here to swim.

‘I cannot feel my feet. But inside, I feel exhilaration. I revel in the idiocy of my actions.’

Cold water swimming is not new for me. I sometimes bathe in alpine ponds and wade across glacial rivers. I once spent five minutes immersed to the neck in Prudhoe Bay, surrounded by sea ice. But, a simple truth: The frequency with which one jumps into ice-cold water is not a predictor of the ease with which it can be done again. It does not decrease the trepidation.

Before the swim, I spend two days in meetings. We talk of vegetation mapping and the loss of sea ice. Through a window, I watch snow falling, fine icy flakes and later fat wet ones coming down in slow motion—what the Iñupiat call masallak, snow that is wet enough to stick together, to make snowballs.

During breaks, I recruit fellow swimmers. “It’s about safety,” I tell them. “If you work around the water, you should know what to expect if you fall in.”

In reality, knowing what to expect is of limited usefulness. Occasionally, abrupt immersion causes cardiac arrest. Always, it triggers the gasp reflex. With face submerged, you suck in a chest full of seawater. But keep your head above water for just a few minutes and you can begin to breathe more or less normally. Tread water. Shivering will not turn violent for five or 10 minutes. Muscle cramping may be 30 minutes away. Unconsciousness may be an hour out, and death by hypothermia another hour.

Yet even those who survive the water risk afterdrop. In 1940, A German ship was sunk off Norway. German soldiers plucked from the water were initially alert, but constricted blood vessels reopened as the men warmed. Cold blood moved from near their skin to their hearts. The men stopped talking, laid down and died.

But our swim will be short, a brief immersion for the joy of feeling alive. By the end of the day, I have recruited two swimmers. We will go the next day, before dinner.

That night, I run through Barrow and onto the beach. I pass the gray skull of a bowhead whale, as big as a golf cart. I pass two fake palm trees and houses with a New England look surrounded by Alaskan chaos, the result of the absence of zoning that comes with the hard life of the far north. I pass upside-down, dilapidated wooden whale boats. A caribou skin stretched on a frame. The wind is cold enough to sting my arms and numb my fingers and leave me certain that I do not want to swim.

Another day of meetings passes, with talk of walrus and arctic fish and lemmings. Snow falls. The wind picks up. I recruit another swimmer.

In the afternoon, we four and a driver head northeast along the shore toward Point Barrow, which divides the Arctic Ocean’s Chukchi Sea to the west from the Beaufort Sea to the east. There used to be a village on the point, and there are graves. Now the point is disappearing, consumed by erosion.

We park near the end of the road and walk across the beach, its gravel cold against our bare feet. In rapid succession, I remove hat, jacket, sweater, shirt and trousers. I stand in a bathing suit intercepting bitter wind.

I break for the surf first, dashing across the beach. Two bounds into the water, calf deep, and I lunge into a wave. The second swimmer follows. The water feels in the 40s—a few degrees colder than the air.
We are on the surface, our heads above water, gasping, shocked, laughing. It is deeper than we expected, too deep to stand. A wave carries me toward the beach, where I can touch bottom. Our other swimmers are still undressing, but the two of us are jumping and clapping and calling them in. We are children in the surf.

The ocean stabs me with ten thousand needles. My skin pulls tight. My muscles stiffen. Another wave lifts me toward shallower water. I cannot feel my feet. But inside, I feel exhilaration. I revel in the idiocy of my actions.

Now we are all in the water. Our driver, too smart to swim, has a camera. We pose in the waves, laughing, cryonically euphoric.

I am in the water for three minutes, possibly four. Back on the beach, feeling comes back to my feet. Pain replaces numbness. My fingers struggle with zippers. In the truck, in damp clothes, the cold blood from my skin and my feet and my hands spreads to my core. I shiver for 25 minutes.

We join a group of biologists for dinner. The swimmers are scattered around the room, smiling. Even at a distance, I can sense their exhilaration. Those who chose not to swim know only the anxiety and trepidation that keeps them ashore. We swimmers know what it is to be chilled by the Arctic Ocean, and to be alive.

We are in Barrow for one more day. I try to recruit new swimmers. “It’s about safety,” I lie. The trepidation is already returning. When I swim again it will be an act of will, a forced entry, something that the sensible part of my brain finds objectionable. And I will go in head-first and come out smiling, laughing and euphoric, a fool overwhelmed with delight.
—Mr. Streever is the author of “Cold: Adventures in the World’s Frozen Places,” and a biologist for BP in Alaska.
Cold-Water Swimming in Alaska – WSJ.com.

THE LOWDOWN

Getting There: Flights arrive daily from Fairbanks and Anchorage.

Where to Stay: The King Eider Inn (kingeider.net) is very close to the airport. The Top of the World Hotel (www.tundratoursinc.com), about a mile away, offers waterfront (or, from late autumn until early summer, ice-front) rooms and is near the center of town. Prices range from about $100 to $200 per night.

Where to Eat: Pepe’s North of the Border is the northernmost Mexican restaurant in the U.S. (1204 Agvik St., 907-852-8200) Osaka Restaurant serves Japanese food, including sushi—and is the northernmost Japanese joint (980 Stevenson St., 907-852-4100). Arctic Pizza is the— well, you get the point (125 Apayauk St., 907-852-4222).

Drinking: Barrow is a “damp” town, which means alcohol cannot be sold there. Visitors can bring small quantities for personal consumption, but alcohol cannot be openly consumed in hotels or restaurants. Drink discreetly!

Getting Around: Rental cars are available, but taxis are surprisingly inexpensive. The beach along the Chukchi Sea is adjacent to the center of town.

What to Do: Guided tours of Barrow are available and worthwhile. Your guide may be able to arrange a visit to an ice cellar, used by locals to store game. The Iñupiat Heritage Center tells the story of Barrow. Polar bears, arctic fox, caribou and bowhead whales can be seen during certain seasons. In July and August, wildflowers bloom in the tundra; bird watching is spectacular in summer.

Tags: Life