numb

Call me crazy. Or masochistic. But at 7am yesterday morning, I went swimming in the San Francisco bay.

The water was warm -- for the bay. It does not feel it. 56 degrees has a way of making itself felt on warm flesh. Here's more about that.

The beginning is pleasant enough. You stand on the beach of the Dolphin Club with the sun on your legs, chatting with friends who are regulars. People launch in clusters, with one group on the beach at a time. You don your cap (I wore two) or squid lid, if you have one of the orange thermal bonnets. Goggles go on, earplugs in. There is an imperative to entering the water: Do it quickly. If you dally, as I did, it gives the feet a chance to fully broadcast their message ("cold; wet; real cold; real wet") to the brain. It's so shocking at first, it's difficult to discern whether it's the "cold" or the "wet" that's causing the problem. This creates an odd possibility that this water is just more wet than other water.

Diving is best. That way your head, torso, arms, back, buttocks, and legs go into sensory overload all at the same time. The first thought that makes it through my head, besides how green the water looks at an ebb tide, is that I could turn around right now and make it back to the beach in seconds. I ignore the idea, heading out into the bay, where even more water awaits. It feels sandpapery, viscous against the skin. To swim in it is to windmill the arms as if they were lead weights slung on spastic rubber bands. You flounder.

3 minutes in, your skin feels like it's burning. For a few strokes you instinctively try to keep your face out of the water. This accomplishes nothing. Next your chest muscles tighten, making it hard to breathe. This lasts for a few long minutes, during which it's easy to get panicky. It helps to remind yourself that there's no problem raising your head and getting air; you just aren't getting very much air. You breath more often, you gasp.

Keep moving, and the alarm bells gradually stop ringing. You -- dare I say it? -- warm up a bit. The air is clear, the sky is blue, and the view of the Golden Gate is fantastic. The waves lap languidly in the protected cove of Aquatic Park, where people walk their dogs and push strollers and generally have a nice San Francisco morning. Giant ships, moored to the equally giant piers, look like buildings from the water's surface. The cold invades the crevices of your body: the folds behind your knees, your armpits, the curls of your ears. Your body acclimates. There is nothing left to offend.

We made it to the last flag, just short of the quarter-mile buoy. I turned around when the soles of my feet went numb. I figured my circulatory system had had enough fun for one day. The real trouble starts when your core temperature drops, and a pleasant warmth floods your body. This is your body's way of telling you you are toast, so why not pretend and make the best of it. The numb feet were enough of a hint for me.

The Dolphin offers warm showers and saunas, and it's open three days a week to the public. Although, my friend Paul points out, the door is always locked and the members are a bit hard of hearing, when it comes to the bell. Why kind of people subject themselves to a daily dunk in ice-cold seawater? A sign in the boathouse offers a clue: 'Every day is a chance to renew yourself fully. Take advantage of it.'