Wednesday, March 29, 2017 // The Statement 
 
7B

Personal Statement: A Meditation on Polar Bears

E

very summer growing up, my entire 
extended family went to a tiny sum-
mer camp on a tiny lake in south-

western Michigan for one week. Normally, 
swaths of children from grade school to high 
school occupied the campgrounds, but we went 
for what’s called “Family Furlough,” the period 
when only families were allowed. Each summer 
I’d anticipate that second week in July when I 
could spend my days adventuring with cousins 
— catching toads on wooded paths, floating in 
canoes to catch map turtles in the marshes and 
diving off the floating dock at the deepest part 
of the lake.

But there were always limits to my adventur-

ous zeal. There were always those adventures 
that were ultimate, rising above the others in 
daringness required and prestige acquired after 
conquering them. For me, this ultimate adven-
ture was jumping in the lake with the group of 
campers and counselors who went each morn-
ing before breakfast.

Each night at dinner, one of the roving young 

staffers would remind us enthusiastically that 
“polar bears” — the lake jumpers — would meet 
on the beach at 6:30 a.m. This band of brazen 
souls amazed me. Not only would they wake 
up at 6:30 — they would wake up to jump in the 
freezing morning water. Sure, it was July, but 
the sun still made a difference for the Midwest-
ern freshwater.

What the polar bears did always seemed so 

unreachable. I couldn’t fathom how they willed 
themselves out of bed and mustered the har-
diness to expose their bodies to the elements 
like that. I so badly wanted to be one of those 
brave ones, but none of my cousins ever went 
in the morning, and I was too shy to go alone. 
I imagined the freshening rush they must’ve 
felt, emerging from the water and wrapping up 
in a towel, warming in the quiet camaraderie of 
experiences shared in the early hours.

Though my family still goes to camp every 

year, I’ve yet to become a polar bear — by the 
time I’d grown confident enough to go, I figured 
I was too old. I had resigned to the fact that polar 
bears would just never be my adventure the way 
toad-catching, turtle-catching and dock-diving 
had been. Even so, I still feel the pang of longing 
when the 6:30 a.m. wake-up call is announced 
at dinner.

Not unreasonably, I kind of thought that 

would be it — that my chances to jump in a lake 
surrounded by woods with a group of people 
in the summer were pretty much over. Last 
summer, however, I found myself in a situation 
similar to camp in many ways, while partaking 
in the University of Michigan’s New England 
Literature Program, where students take col-
lege courses in the unconventional setting of 
the New Hampshire wilderness.

The program was housed at a summer camp 

whose grounds were sprinkled with cabins cen-
tered around a big dining hall, not unlike the one 
we dined in during Family Furlough. The other 

students and I were there for six weeks from 
early spring to early summer, which means it 
was still pretty cold. Despite this, the lake that 
bordered the grounds seemed to dare me to 
swim in it. This could be my second chance.

At our first dinner all together in the spa-

cious, high-ceilinged dining hall, one of the 
younger instructors, Everett, announced he’d 
be jumping in the lake at 7:30 every morning, 
and that anyone was welcome to meet him on 
the steps of the dining hall to come with. It 
wasn’t 6:30, but the significantly colder water 
made the idea of jumping in just as ultimate, just 
as untouchable.

I turned to face my new friend, Liam, and 

he pre-empted my question by stating imme-
diately that he’d be on those front steps bright 
and early. Since his bed was next to mine in our 
cabin, I told him he should wake me up when he 
went and to make me come with him. I knew it 
wouldn’t be easy.

That night after dinner we did our reading by 

lamplight and went to bed plenty early so we’d 
have enough for the task that would be before 
us come morning.

I woke up to Liam tapping me on the shoul-

der, standing over my bed wearing the clothes 
he had on the night before — it was so cold 
inside our unheated, fireplace-less cabin that 
it wasn’t even worth changing before going to 
sleep. I whispered a groggy “good morning” 
and looked above my head at the spring light 
leaking through the cracks in the shutters of the 
window, shining through the cabin door. With 
a quick stretch I peeled myself out of my sleep-
ing bag, letting the 40-degree air welcome me 
to the waking hours. I told Liam I’d meet him 
there, grabbed my swimsuit and towel, then 
rushed to the bathroom to change, knowing if I 
didn’t exit the cabin soon, I’d fall back into bed.

I tumbled half-awake out of the cabin into 

the day-lit woods, hearing the echoes of wood-
peckers in the distance and the songs of milder 
birds nearby. After changing, I ambled over 
woodchip paths to the front steps of the dining 
hall, where Everett and Liam sat exchanging 
what few words they could in this cold morn-
ing hour.

We went to the front steps of the dining hall 

to meet Everett, then the three of us went down 
to the dock.

Standing on the wooden planks we stared 

out at the water as yet undisturbed by boats or 
swimming bodies, then looked at one another 
solemnly, accepting our inevitable fate. It was 
time. Flinging off our shoes and extra layers, 
our breath made steam clouds as we jogged in 
place to work up the adrenaline for the jump.

“Ready?” Everett said. Liam and I nodded 

very seriously. “One. Two. Three.” A blood-
curdling scream emerged from my lungs and 
echoed through the morning air for a split sec-
ond before I was totally submerged. All at once, 
the cold rush enveloped me, the lake welcom-
ing me to its silent depths. As soon as my body 

caught its bearings, I pushed myself upward, 
and right when my head escaped the freezing 
quiet of underwater, Liam and Everett’s shouts 
of nonsense profanities echoed through the dry 
air. Soon I joined in as we all lunged toward the 
ladder to get back onto the dock.

We did this every morning, and it wasn’t 

long before our friend Caroline joined and we 
became the four most consistent jumpers. We 
started this tradition with Everett and Liam 
singing the “Rocky” theme song while Caroline 
and I pretended to hum along, all four of us jog-
ging in a circle, doing random arm motions to 
get pumped up before the plunge. There were 
mornings over those six weeks that I didn’t 
want to go — I was too tired, I didn’t want to be 
cold, or I had too much reading to do. I did skip 
some mornings, but never without regret.

I wasn’t quite sure why I was doing this 

thing. I didn’t care about polar bears that much, 
but jumping in the lake each morning felt signif-
icant. My great friend who led me to this litera-
ture program in the woods also loved jumping 
in water at daybreak, something she told me 
before I left for this place. Although polar bears 
and my friend’s account had to have influenced 
my thinking, I don’t think these are the real rea-
sons I kept jumping in.

Thoreau, whose work we read as part of the 

program, jumped in water too. In “Walden,” he 
writes:

“Every morning was a cheerful invitation 

to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may 
say innocence, with Nature herself. … I got 
up early and bathed in the pond; that was a 

religious exercise, and one of the best things 
which I did. … Renew thyself completely 
each day; do it again, and again, and forever 
again.” 

Maybe that was it — I relished in the daily 

renewal. Now, at school, my heart aches for 
that invigoration. When I wake up, I roll 
out of bed, clothe myself and stride onto the 
sidewalk only to sit in a library or classroom 
for hours, bent — albeit happily — over a 
book or my keyboard, reading and writing 
away. I miss the severe, utter, intense sensa-
tion with which I began each morning in the 
lake, making myself breathless in despera-
tion to get out of the cold, cold water.

This summer I’ll be settled in the land-

locked metropolis of Columbus, Ohio, unfor-
tunately a car ride away from any large 
bodies of water. But before I settle into the 
rhythm of summer jobs, my family has a trip 
planned for my grandparents’ anniversary. 
We’ll be staying in a house on a lake in Mary-
land, and I think the water will be pretty 
cold. I’m looking forward to jumping in each 
morning, and it’s likely only my grandma 
will be awake with me. I know I’ll miss Liam 
and Everett and Caroline, but I wonder if 
these solo jumps might be a little more like 
Thoreau’s when he lived in solitude those 
couple of months in the woods. Either way, 
the simple touch of water and the struggle 
of emerging anew, back onto the land again, 
will be enough for me.

Regan Detwiler is an LSA junior and a former 

editorial page editor of The Michigan Daily.

by Regan Detwiler, Contributor

PHOTO COURTESY OF REGAN DETWILER

