While I usually put my cat away in early November, I paddle my sea kayak year-round. Much of my experience with cold water comes from that sport. (I also teach a one-day class on the topic each spring to area paddlers. It involves on-the-water practice in conditions where the water temp is 35-40 degrees - out in front of the local Coast Guard station.)
Much of my experience translates to any activity on cold water. With that in mind, I thought I'd post a copy of a story I'd once written for our local paddler's forum:
[color:"#666666"]In the days when Lake Champlain used to freeze over, "ice-out" day was a much anticipated event. From my office window I could scan the lake with binoculars, searching for signs of open water. With a good wind, the break-up happens quickly. Suddenly the deep blue waters appear from beneath the winter freeze, my cue to head for the launch. Such was the case on March 29th, 1996. At 2 o'clock in the afternoon the ice cleared from Burlington Harbor. I slipped quietly out of my office, hurried home, dressed for paddling, and was off to Perkins Pier.
It felt good to be on the water, but the lake still bristled with ice. Heading south, I was turned back at the entrance to Shelburne Bay. It was still packed with ice. I paddled along its edge for a few moments, then pointed my bow back toward the Burlington skyline. In the distance, a flash of yellow caught my eye, another paddler was headed my way. I turned toward him. When I was about a quarter mile away, a strange thing happened. The other kayak turned over. I couldn't believe my eyes. "Why would he do that?" I thought. "Testing a new drysuit, perhaps?"
The paddler didn't roll up. The next thing I saw was the panicked response of someone who'd just been immersed in 35 degree water. He tried lunging out of the icy liquid and clambering on top of the overturned hull. It didn't work. He slid off the slick polyethylene, back into the frigid lake. By then, I was in an all-out sprint, terrified by what was unfolding in front of me.
After sliding back into the water, the paddler momentarily let go of the boat. Although the wind was only at about 7 to 10 knots out of the north, it quickly blew the kayak out of reach. It was then that I was close enough to see that the man was not wearing a life jacket. He tried to swim after his boat, but was only able to take a few strokes before being overcome by the cold water. In less than a minute, he was unable to move at all and his body began settling lower in the water.
At a six knot sprint pace, it took me only about two and a half minutes to cover the quarter mile that separated us. By then, the man had lost all ability to help himself. As I drew close, he was motionless in the water. Only his mouth, nose, and eyes were exposed to the air, his face tilted up, struggling to breath. During my final strokes, a nightmare vision ran through my mind, seeing the man slip beneath the water and disappear.
I fully expected to have to swim with him. His boat was gone and he was wearing nothing more than jeans and sneakers. (He had removed the heavy cotton sweatshirt - when the boat blew away - apparently thinking that it was weighing him down.) All I could think was, "Grab hold of him. Don't let him sink."
Skidding to a stop on a low brace, holding the paddle with one hand across the **** combing, I thrust my other hand into the water and miraculously grabbed him by the belt and yanked upward. There was no struggle on his part (nor any help) just a body rendered motionless by a brief few minutes in cold water. I hauled him onto the deck, struggling to avoid capsizing, yet fully prepared for a swim if the situation necessitated it.
We were only a couple hundred yards from shore, but it was a struggle to paddle the distance while trying to keep his body on my deck. His legs still dangled helplessly off my starboard gunwale, his chest on the deck and head at the water's surface on the port side. Every few strokes I had to stop and pull him back onto the deck. When we reached shore, I hauled him onto the rocks at Oakledge Park. The sun shone warmly on the rocks and others in the park enjoyed the Spring sunshine wearing only T-shirts. The man lived in one of the condos adjacent to the park, where he spent the remainder of the afternoon warming and reflecting on what had happened.
After recovering his boat and soggy sweatshirt from the lake, I quickly paddled back to the Perkins Pier launch to pick up my kids from daycare. I hadn't taken the time to get the man's name, but often wondered how he'd fared. A few weeks later, my wife, Michele, and I were unloading our kayaks at Oakledge. A man came jogging toward us on the road. As he got close, I told Michele, "That's him!" He ran to me to offer his thanks a happy ending to that frightful experience a few weeks ago. Thankful that a tragedy had been averted, he told me that the boat had been a mid-winter purchase. He couldn't wait to try it out. While attempting to turn the boat, his blade dove, upsetting the boat and resulting in the capsize. He told me of how rapidly the cold water had transformed his otherwise fit, youthful body into useless limbs. He told me that he was terrified by how he had quickly lost the ability to help himself.
Apparently he never saw me coming. Until my face appeared above him and I had a grip on his belt, he had seen his fate as death in the icy grip of Lake Champlain's early season waters.
On that late March day in 1996, one paddler narrowly avoided a tragic end, but there are too many other situations that do not share the same outcome. You'll hear it again and again from experienced paddlers, "Cold water kills." Plain and simple.
Next time you head to the lake, leave the boat on the car for a moment. Go to the shore and dive in. Swim around for a bit. Then, confident that you are dressed for immersion, go back, get your boat, and have a blast! [/color]
