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THE DAILY ASTORIAN • FRIDAY, JANUARY 8, 2016
On New Year’s Day, a cold splash of camaraderie
sand, facing the water, hand-in-hand as they
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in each direction. I peeled off my layers and ran
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legs began pounding towards the surf.
Polar Bears greet the new
year fearlessly, if wet
By ANDREW R. TONRY
For EO Media Group
Mobile within ice
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ter. Some hesitated. Others barreled on. I was
deterred to rip off the plunge like a B and-A id, in
one fell swoop. Ahead of me a gaggle of teenage
boys dove into the shallow waves. No point in
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approached I launched myself through it like a
plate glass window. Submerged for those brief
fractions of a second, I felt mobile within ice,
somehow still liquid. I vaulted upright and blast-
ed out of the water like a rocket — bellowing,
twisting and shouting in a celebratory convul-
sion of life and physical shock.
Gone immediately were any remnants of the
night before. The plodding drag of feeling half-
asleep vanished. I was 110 percent, lean, mean,
freezing machine. Indeed, that blink under wa-
Andrew Tonry/For EO Media Group
ter was more potent, more explosive than all the
Members of the Arch Cape Polar Bear cups of coffee in all the world. I was not only
Club head for the surf on New Year’s Day. awake, but very much alive.
So too did the plunge invigorate numerous
I could see the crab boats so well I began to won- biological red alerts — Dire systems warning.
der: were they closer than normal, or was this We cannot sustain this. Uncontrollably, my
breath shortened and quickened. I shivered with
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Beautiful, but jaggedly crisp
His name was Rip
Walking from the water, the wind reared up.
The buzz of a blaring alarm clock is never a
I saw a man with a big, black, wool navy It stopped me in my tracks. Jesus. My body, drip-
pleasant sound, particularly after partying. This coat with close-cropped gray hair and short. ping wet, felt as if icicles were forming in real
goes exponential for Jan. 1.
He strolled out, ankle deep into the water and time on my chest, a slick, icy crust overtaking
At least the sun was out, illuminating my plunked something down into it. He raised it up my skin. I tightened, but also in a good way —
bedroom, the white sheets almost aglow. The air and looked. Taking a measurement, perhaps? He leaner, and in much greater physical harmony
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“Are you a Polar Bear?” I wondered.
luctant, I arose. I splashed handfuls of hot water
Wide-eyed, pushing forward, the Polar Bears
“Mhmm.”
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streamed alongside me, back to their towels, to
His name was Rip. In his orbit were two boys WKH¿UH$ZRPDQZHDULQJDWLQVHOFURZQORRNHG
mouth. I grabbed two towels then piled multiple
OD\HUVRYHUP\6SHHGRV²ORQJMRKQVVZHDW about middle-school age. They were tending over and howled as we walked: “Why do we do
pants, a T -shirt, two sweaters, a wool coat, beanie WRWKHIDPLO\¿UHVWLUUHGEDFNWROLIHIURPODVW this? ”
and wool socks. I wrapped the towels around my night’s celebration.
Her question was rhetorical and there were a
neck like a scarf, pulled on my boots and stepped
Rip had indeed been taking the water tem- few added expletives, and it was said only partly
outside.
perature. It was in the neighborhood of 40 de- LQMHVW0\DQVZHUZDVWKHVDPH³:K\QRW"´
It was beautiful. I squinted at the glowing, grees, which was likely warmer than the air.
New and profound camaraderie
clear blue skies, bright green grass and rays of Such knowledge offered scant consolation.
I found my towel and buried my head in it,
golden sun. It was also cold. Really frigid. The
When the wind blew hard its force was stag-
bunnies scattered as I sauntered to my car, my gering. And while sustained gusts strong enough vigorously rubbing. It was glorious, whisking
breath visible, even after closing the door. I to create little trails of sailing sand are not un- away those freezing beads and pools. I gave my
turned the key and KMUN chimed over the ste- common, rarely did it get whipped to face level, chest and arms a few cursory wipes before pull-
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reo.
where it now approached
On the roads there were few signs of life be-
Rather suddenly, boys, girls, men and wom- them over still-wet skin. I wrapped the towel
sides a few puttering chimneys. As I pulled onto en, grandpas and grandmas of all ages began around my waist and tried to take a few pictures.
U.S. Highway 101 I noticed a pool of water in streaming over the rocks and onto the beach. My shoeless feet throbbed. My toes — or what
the middle of the highway. It was frozen over. A They were in all manor of dress — covered in I could still feel of them — screamed in agony.
Weaving about I noticed a new and profound
mile or two south I passed a lone cyclist. He too bathrobes, hoodies, wrapped in towels, and in
was starting his year with some healthy determi- nothing more than their skivvies. Old men in camaraderie. Where everyone emerged from
their cabins stoic, they were now giggling and
nation. I began to cackle. His devotion seemed to parkas to teenage girls in bikinis.
“They want to be in and out quickly as pos- talking and holding hands, giving kisses, being
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absolutely present with one another. The shock
By the time the car had warmed it was time sible,” Rip said of the hastily assembling ranks.
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to get back out . I reached Arch Cape, but my di-
a community.
rections were a little loose. A “second house on wrapped around his waist I recognized Court
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the right” kind of thing. But I wasn’t sure where, Carrier from the Cannon Beach Chamber of
rocking chair. Stray logs. Driftwood.
H[DFWO\VR,MXVWWUDPSHGWKURXJKVRPHIROLDJH Commerce. I asked him if he knew who
Then came a Christmas tree. It went
over the crooked boulders of the sea wall and here had been a Polar Bear the longest.
up in an instant, some 10-feet
He pointed me back towards Rip.
down to the sand.
high. Everyone stepped back,
The group had grown to
No real sign of any Polar Bears, though. I
then once, maybe twice
posted up, facing south, away from the wind. It maybe 75 or more. They
again. The radiating
really was gorgeous. As gorgeous as it was cold. began lining up down the
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arousing after New Year’s kisses I tried to
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much as a nibble. No one wanted to think of the
rapidly approaching morning, much less greet it
by plunging into the ice-cold ocean.
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alongside the Arch Cape Polar Bear Club. But a
few had heard of it. Their guffaws came, drip-
ping with no shortage of sarcasm.
“You’re gonna get naked with a few old men,
eh?”
“What a way to kick off 2016.”
I all but gave up. With a few friends I wan-
dered out of the Warren House and down to the
beach in hopes of seeing the n orthern l ights,
which were supposedly visible. Besides the
stars, though, the only lights found were attached
to crab boats.
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huddling around it for a temporary respite from
whipping winds, we made our ways home. As
we parted, I offered one last salvo.
“Polar Bear Club in the morning?”
No takers.
?
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Rip was circulating, spreading the word: hot
buttered rum party at his cabin in one hour. Folks
spilled back off the beach, into the surrounding
homes. Rip invited me in.
A hot buttered rum party
We walked up the path, past last evidence of
last night’s revelry, to the cabin. It’s been in the
family since the 1950 s. The wooden sides were
angled like the letter “A,” low, tight and aged.
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and Polaroids chronicled generations. Most ev-
eryone in the room — near 10 family and friends
— had wet hair.
I was handed a steaming cup of rich, black
coffee. Rip had one, too . Hot buttered rum was
being readied, stirred on the stove.
Rip and I sat down at the kitchen table and
he told me about the Polar Bears. Two subse-
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and some teenage boys. The youngsters tuned in,
wide-eyed and ears open. They even had ques-
tions — and tales — of their own.
The family had been at it since the ’60s, Rip
said. He himself has missed maybe four plung-
es in the last four-plus decades. He now lives in
San Francisco, but makes a point of making the
trip. Rip said his mom recently retired from the
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diving in.
Rip said his mom was one of the originals,
along with a woman named Barbara Shaw,
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queen. In her honor, Barb Beemer was bestowed
the ceremonial honor. Turns out we crossed paths
earlier. She was the one wearing the tinsel crown.
As the hot drinks warmed our lips, hands,
mouths and bellies, we talked about tradition,
family, community and the beach. We talked
about what keeps an event like this going, and
what makes it special.
Rip said that part of the allure was the cleans-
ing, the washing away of 2015. But we agreed,
it’s more than that: it’s meeting the n ew y ear and
clearing a hurdle — doing something that’s hard,
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caution into the wind. In a way, it’s about being
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wall and putting your shoulder down and plow-
ing right through it. It’s an exercise of abandon
and will. And once you’ve done it, plunged of
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you emerge feeling anything is possible — like,
“OK, what’s next?”
Toasty warm
I remembered what I’d told my friends the
night before, trying to convince them to come:
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regretted it?”
As I returned home to Cannon Beach, a new-
ly minted Polar Bear, I roused my friends for
brunch. Their heads were still cloudy, and they
shivered as they left the house.
All day I stayed toasty warm.
Swimmers enjoy New Year’s Day with a
dip into the Pacific Ocean.
Andrew Tonry
For EO Media Group
Santa, no!
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hristmas in Warrenton. The colorful lights, the glistening frost, the el-
derly man riding a red scooter who hit someone’s dog with a stick ...
Hold on, really?
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