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They did it!: This newspaper’s Editor-in-Chief, Anthony
Rotunno, right, and Arts Editor Bill Roundy had smiles frozen
on their faces for hours after they completed the New Year’s
Day Coney Island Polar Bear Plunge. Photo by Erica Price
Polar postmortem
Our editor reflects on his New Year’s Day plunge
COURIER L 24-7 IFE, JAN. 4-10, 2019 37
By Anthony Rotunno Brr-ing it on, 2019!
That is what I repeated to myself
while huddled amid a mass of halfnaked
people on the Coney Island beach on
Jan. 1, waiting for organizers of the annual
New Year’s Day Coney Island Polar Bear
Plunge to lift the plastic fencing separating
us from the Atlantic Ocean.
Minutes before, my three friends and I
joked about how refreshing the dip would
be, while we soaked up the sun on the
unseasonably balmy day, when temperatures
crept toward the high 50s.
But the warmth of the giant star’s rays
quickly subsided as I shed my fuzzy outer
layers on the sand — and watched the first
plungers sprint from the waters towards
their towels, their teeth chattering and bodies
writhing in the cold air.
Until that moment, I hadn’t much
thought about actually taking the plunge —
just the spectacle of making our way to the
People’s Playground, semi-hungover after a
long night ringing in the new year. And, of
course, the many photo opportunities the
excursion would present — including the
chance to pose with my beloved Arts Editor
Bill Roundy, who also planned for a wet
start to the next 12 months.
My decision to do the dip — often
described with such calming words as
refreshing, restorative, and rejuvenating —
seemed far less sound as I witnessed the
sheer chaos that was the inaugural batch of
500 plungers’ scramble to warm up after
they dove into the water at 1 pm.
But there was little time to question my
choice as the clock ticked toward my group’s
1:10 pm plunge time. Besides, the only way
out of the makeshift pen would be to fight
my way through the rows of people waiting
to follow us into the ocean.
Another massive crowd stood alongside
us, shouting well wishes that grew even
louder as the last seconds ticked down.
Then the organizers lifted the plastic fencing
in front of us, and our group of started
to slowly move toward the water as one, like
an amoeba.
All of a sudden, the noise stopped —
even as I rushed past the marching band that
lined our path to the shoreline. My sense of
sound seemed to go dormant as my body
braced for the sensation of stepping into the
icy water — which may not technically have
been below freezing, but sure felt like it.
I watched as bodies silently splashed
past me, as heads popped up from and
dropped below the surface around me, as
mouths opened wide but no sounds came
out. The water washed over me in small
waves, knocking the wind out of me as it
broke higher and higher on my bare chest.
To my right I saw my friend Liz, who had
been clutching my arm since we stood on the
beach and still hadn’t let go, even though I
could no longer feel her grasp. She gestured
to the surface, reminding me we agreed to
dunk our heads together. She then collapsed
into the water, bringing me down with her.
I barely closed my eyes and plugged my
nose before my body fell into the cold abyss.
As quickly as we went under, we popped
up. And then we bolted to the shore.
My senses returned with each step I
took away from the water. The cacophony
of cheers blared in my ears as I ran past
the remaining souls who had yet to submerge,
and I started to notice all those brave
Brooklynites who jumped in before me.
Many of their expressions had melted from
shock to smiles, and I basked in the warmth
of that cheer until I made it to the towel waiting
for me by the Boardwalk.
I wouldn’t go so far as to call the plunge
“fun,” and I’m definitely in no rush to jump
in again next year. But it was certainly unforgettable,
and not just because of the sheer
discomfort that was submerging myself in
the ocean in the dead of winter.
I left the day with an overwhelming
sense of camaraderie — for the dozens of
volunteers who made it possible; the hundreds
of folks I bonded with through our
shared experience; the locals who came out
to watch; and for Bill, whom I managed to
catch up with for a post-plunge photo at the
Freak Bar — that will surely outlast any
physical aftereffects.
I hope to hold onto this feeling of unity
with my borough and its people — a connection
often hard to make in a place with
some 2.6-million residents — as the months
ahead unfold, to serve as a reminder of how
we began the year together.
And if that fails, I’ll always have my
photo with Bill.
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