I hate cold water.
I mean, I reeeeeaaaallllllllly hate cold water. Given the choice, I take no shower over a frigid shower or, even a lukewarm shower. There’s just something about arctic agua that drives me over the edge.
Hate it.
Hate it.
Hate it.
That said, I also hate living inside a comfort zone. That’s why I chose to skydive three years ago—because I’d long feared the idea of doing so. And that’s why, earlier this evening, I charged into the Atlantic Ocean, accompanied by two friends, when the sun had faded, the temperature had dropped, the wind was picking up and my wife asked, “Uh, why?”
Why? Because I can.
And if I can, I should. At least once.
So we ran to the water. Jill dove in. Greg dove it. I, well, didn’t. I ran, then stopped. Paused. Reconsidered. The wife yelled, “Don’t wimp out!” I didn’t. I threw my body beneath a wave. And—BAM! It hit me. The cold, yes. But, really, the euphoria. The rush. Eerily similar to skydiving, only colder. I loved it. Ate it up. Jumped back into the water. Came out. Then suggested, “Let’s do it again!” So we did—twice more.
I think I’ll always remember that feeling; that jolt of passion and euphoria.
To hell with hating cold water. I’m all in.
