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