#34
Good Afternoon. Happy New Year. Happy Friday.
Real New Yorkers
New York City is my home. I’ve always been cautious about calling it my home. I grew up in the suburbs just north of the city. I’d come into the city often, but I always felt like I occupied a space just above tourist. I’d never really considered myself a “bridge & tunnel” New Yorker either, even though I was one by definition. For me, B&T New Yorkers see the city itself through the lens of contempt. A place to go to for work, to extract experience from, then to leave to its own devices when it becomes inconvenient. I knew I’d never reach the level of “Native New Yorker,” the title reserved for people born and raised within the borders of the five boroughs, but “Real New Yorker” felt like an achievable goal.
I lived and studied in the Bronx for four years. After college I moved to Morningside Heights in Manhattan. I lived their for three years and then I moved to Park Slope. I joke with my friends and family about how I just steadily move south within the city’s borders. I’ll never retire to Florida, but I’d consider retirement in the Rockaways. We’ll see if either Florida or the Rockaways are habitable by the time I retire.
I’ve lived within the city’s borders for ~15 years. Almost half of my life. Despite all of those years, I still never felt like I was worthy of claiming the title “Real New Yorker.” When most people meet me they don’t assume I’m from here. I have no accent, walk slow, and don’t generally live up to most other stereotypes of New Yorkers. My interest in the city’s history, my love of theater, and my fanatical devotion to the New York Mets seem to be the only parts of my personality that are true to NYC.
That changed two days ago. I woke up on New Year’s Day with an excitement I hadn’t felt in years. My friends and I had signed up to do the Polar Bear Plunge with the Coney Island Polar Bear Club. Every year I can remember, I’d seen the story run by the local television stations on New Year’s Day. Reporters would flock to Coney Island to interview the crazy people who would dive into the icy waters. I always wanted to be one of those crazy people.
When I was a kid, Coney Island was just the place with the aquarium. I’d never spend time on the boardwalk and we went there infrequently (less than five times). As an adult I’ve built a relationship with the place. It’s easy to get to from where I live so my wife and I go often. It has a rich history, a minor league baseball stadium, and great food. It’s a place where everyone in the city feels welcome, while still maintaining a somewhat seedy vibe. It embodies everything I love about this town and it still genuinely feels like a place that is unique to New York.
Given my personal history with the place, the first day of the 20s seemed like an appropriate day to finally take the plunge down at Coney. I was so giddy when we got there and registered. We had raised enough money to earn a long sleeve t-shirt. Anyone that knows me well knows that I am a sucker for spectacle and merchandise.
On the boardwalk one of the volunteers asked if it was our first time. He gave us some pro tips, “shed an article of clothing every half hour leading up to the swim, keep your hands above the water, and have fun.” He said he’s been in the Polar Bear Club for ~16 years, “trust me.”
I followed his advice and by 1:00pm I was down to just my bathing suit. I was feeling good. Then I removed my shoes. You know how sand has the ability to scorch the soles of your feet during the summer? It has the inverse effect in the winter. My feet immediately were numbed by the cold sand. Then they called our group into “the chute” that would funnel us into the ocean. We were in a group of ~200 others. Once you're in with your wave you realize there is no backing out and the momentum of the crowd carries you forward. Volunteers lift the gates and you march toward the 39 degree water. A drum line from a local high school beats out a marching beat as you enter the ocean. My feet were so cold I couldn’t even feel the water as I entered. I waded out to about chest level. My friend and I looked at each other screaming. We shouted “are we going under? WE’RE GOING UNDER!” then we signaled a countdown with our hands. 3. 2. 1.
My wife stood about 10 feet behind us, waist deep in the water. She said that after I emerged my eyes looked like she’d never seen them before. Like I’d been possessed. It was one of the greatest rushes of my life. It felt like an adult baptism, but instead of being baptized into some kind of pentecostal church or apocalyptic cult, I had been baptized into a group of fellow Coney Island freaks. I was ecstatic as I walked out of the water. I was chasing that high all day.
Later on as we settled in at home, my friend texted me this story from CBS. The lead in to the story says “the amateurs and tourists go to Times Square, but real New Yorkers go to Coney Island.” If you look closely, you’ll see us at around the 19 second mark.
I finally felt like I had earned it. I’m a “Real New Yorker.”
Thanks for reading and Happy New Year! Maybe I’ll see you at the Polar Bear Plunge in 2021.
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