Maggie Downs

“The first meeting of the Palm Springs Pooler Bear Society is now in session,” I said, solemnly.

My six-year-old son, Everest, and I stood side by side, our toes even with the edge of our neighborhood pool, and nobody else was around. It was 6 a.m. on an October weekday, the first cold morning we’d had in months. Low, lumpy clouds hovered around the slate-gray mountains in the distance. I clutched Everest's hand and said we’d leap on the count of three.

“One — two —”

This had been my idea. For months, it seemed like everyone was extolling the benefits of cold water swimming, which has been shown to relieve physical ailments, boost the immune system, and improve moods. Proponents say it’s a quick and effective way to add a zing to your day, jump-starting your circulatory system and flooding your body with endorphins.

It started when I binged a documentary series on Netflix, and one episode delved into the Wim Hof Method of cold exposure, involving chilly showers, polar plunges, and hiking through the snow. Next I happened to pick up Bonnie Tsui’s inspiring “Why We Swim,” which looks at humans’ relationship with water, including how our bodies respond to cold immersion. Then a friend’s community pool closed, which prompted her to begin swimming in the frigid San Francisco Bay. She wrote rapturous social media posts about how alive she felt.

Many months into lockdown, that’s exactly how I yearned to feel. Alive. The prolonged grief of social isolation and the slow-motion trauma of the pandemic pushed me to desire the opposite — vibrance, exuberance, engagement in my body at a cellular level.

Even though I’m a mediocre swimmer and prefer looking at water to being in it, I had to get in on this cold water action. I invited Everest along, because I was afraid I’d chicken out without my kid there to see it through. And if there’s one thing a 6-year-old will reliably do, it’s hold a parent accountable when there has been a promise of pool time.

Everest had been begging to go swimming anyway, so I knew he would be excited. Our local pool sat closed for months, but it’s located not more than 20 steps from our back patio, always within sight, a constant reminder of the fun we weren’t having. Though the condo association recently reopened the facility, it was often too crowded during the day for my comfort. Early morning, however, we could have the place to ourselves.

So I invented the Palm Springs Polar Bear Society, which my son promptly renamed Pooler Bear Society. It’s a very exclusive club in that we are the only two members. We have a singular goal, and that is to jump into a cold pool at least once a week.

Secretly, my hope was that this would break us out of our pandemic rut. Time had swelled into a blob of Zoom meetings and walking circles around the block, and it was a challenge to discern one day from the next. Our lives were steady, thankfully, but placid.

Throwing cold water on something is an idiom with a negative connotation. It’s when you spoil an idea or deter someone. But at the core, it’s about disruption, the shock of it. When you pour cold water on a thing, you change it. You create a clear, sharp distinction from whatever was happening before. You make it different.

That’s what I was aiming for. As a mom already stretched thin from shepherding my son through virtual first grade, working from home, and living through a pandemic, it was daunting, even downright unrealistic, to imagine making every day good. But I could make our days different. And different was good enough.

I was reminded of something I once read about orcas. Neuroscientist Lori Marino wrote in Aeon that when orcas in captivity are forced to live in highly artificial circumstances, the result is boredom that manifests in chronic stress. Conversely, a thriving orca means “being exposed to the complexity, variability and even the risks and challenges associated with a life in the ocean.”

My son and I weren’t about to take risks on our health and safety beyond our home bubble. But here was a calculated rush that promised to stimulate our senses and give us a way to feel less like bored orcas circling a concrete tank. Just add water.

The day before we began, I printed a blank calendar for the month, and I stuck it to the fridge. It looked like a fresh start, every square a space for potential. I imagined every time we did a Pooler Bear jump, Everest would place a penguin sticker on the calendar. It would be a happy, cheerful reminder of our secret club and our shared experience.

On that very chilly October morning, it felt like we were on the precipice of something huge, something exciting. Then, on the count of three, the Palm Springs Pooler Bear Society leaped into the water.

We made a very big splash. And we did, in fact, receive a shock.

That was the day we discovered the pool is heated.

The Pooler Bear Society

Maggie Downs