Recently I had someone ask if I liked my job. It’s a question that everyone gets, and I told them I liked all the parts that are not tied to my work, my colleagues (kind and competent), managers, (trusting and direct), my commute, (by bike) and my lunch break (exercising). However, I made it clear that it’s still work, and I am not one of those people (do they really exist?) who loves their work...I mean it is called work for a reason. 

What I do love is the feeling of being in the middle of the Trent campus with small icicles of pain poking into my skin, my breath having seconds before been sent into a series of gasps, now returning to a regulated pattern. 

While I don’t make it in everyday, there isn’t a day that goes past that I don’t look out from the 3^rd floor of the Student Centre in the Careerspace office and think about my next visit into the cold expanse, the liquid chasm that breaks up and binds our campus. 

As winter moves forward (and finally resembles winter) my swim becomes more complicated, along the canal's edges. A blooming of ice requires daily dismantling. By fist and foot the ice is broken up and pushed out, often returning by the force of the current to act as a floating impediment to my plunge. Without time for my rational brain to consider what is happening I take two or three steps and dive into the river. My quickly thinning hair doesn’t provide much insulation and so immediate barbs of pain explode from my scalp as I descend beneath the surface. All at once my body realizes what is occurring, the adrenaline surges through my body, and my breathing quickens into overdrive.

Rhythmic breathing is replaced with a feeling of pain and euphoria; I know at that moment it is the best part of my day. A leisurely breaststroke keeps my head above the water and even on the days that look gray and dull the world around me is beautiful, the river flowing around me feels alive, and so do I. 

I am, of course, only a weak human being, and as the minutes tick by I can feel that my body can only stand a handful of minutes. As my hands start to form into paddles of pain, I begin my return to the shore. As I exit, I feel like a primordial creature leaving water for the first time in its evolutionary history. On hands and knees, I drag myself out of the water looking for shelter. After toweling off and putting a jacket on, I head to the warmth of a shower. Some days the pain lasts for seconds, other times minutes as my body experiences a maelstrom of climatic conditions.

My walk back to the office is usually quick as I’m rushing to a meeting, but I’m already thinking about my next plunge into the Otonabee.