From the moment we knew we were going to Antarctica, I knew I was doing the polar plunge. There was really never much debate about it. I figured I would probably only be in Antarctica once in my life, so if someone was going to offer me the opportunity to voluntarily throw myself into freezing Antarctic water, obviously I was going to say yes.

Would it be cold? Absolutely. Miserable? Probably. Thrilling? Definitely.

So naturally, I planned for it. I thought about what I would wear, what I would put on afterward, and how quickly I could get myself warm again. I had mentally prepared for the whole thing.

Sarah, meanwhile, had mentally prepared to watch me do something ridiculous.

For days, I kept trying to convince her to do it with me. I gave her the whole “once-in-a-lifetime experience” speech. I reminded her that we might never be in Antarctica again. I tried enthusiasm. I tried logic. I probably tried mild harassment.

Her answer remained the same.

No.

Eventually, I gave up and accepted that I would be doing the plunge alone.

Then came the day of the final sign-up.

Somehow, and I genuinely do not remember how this happened, Sarah changed her mind.

She was doing it.

This was excellent news until we realized one very important detail.

Sarah had packed for Antarctica.

Not a beach vacation.

Not a cruise through the Caribbean.

Antarctica.

So her suitcase was full of thermal layers, fleece, waterproof pants, sweaters, gloves, hats and clothing specifically designed to keep every inch of her body as far away from cold air and water as possible.

A swimsuit had apparently not made the cut.

The closest thing she had was a thermal shirt and thermal pants.

Perfect.

Nothing says “polar plunge” quite like long underwear.

At that point, though, there was no turning back. She had signed up, so apparently thermal underwear was now swimwear.

Later that day, we got ready, put on our robes and joined the line with everyone else who had also looked at the Southern Ocean and thought, You know what would improve this experience? Getting in it.

As we waited, I was still excited.

Sarah, I suspect, was reviewing every life decision that had led her to standing in Antarctica wearing thermals under a robe waiting to jump into freezing water.

Then it was our turn.

I went first.

I climbed down toward the water, they clipped the safety tether onto me, and I stood barefoot on this tiny metal ladder looking down into water that was basically saying, You have made a terrible decision.

At that point, I had options.

I could jump.

I could ease myself in.

I could rethink everything and climb right back up the ladder.

Instead, for reasons that remain completely unclear, I decided to dive headfirst.

Apparently, simply entering the Southern Ocean was not dramatic enough.

There were no judges. No medals. No extra credit for form. Nobody was standing there saying, “Excellent entry, 9.5.”

And yet, there I went.

Headfirst.

The second I hit the water, every thought left my brain.

It was not the kind of cold where you think, Wow, that is chilly.

It was the kind of cold where your body immediately goes, What have you done?

Everything went numb almost instantly. I came back up, gasped, and started swimming toward that ladder with a level of urgency normally reserved for actual emergencies.

There was no enjoying the moment.

No admiring Antarctica from the water.

No peaceful floating.

I had seen enough.

I had experienced enough.

I was ready to be done with Antarctica from the neck down.

As I climbed out, Sarah was making her way toward the ladder for her turn. I didn’t get to see her plunge because I was quickly moved into the “warming room,” which at that point could have been a broom closet with one space heater and I would have considered it a luxury resort.

A few minutes later, Sarah came in.

That was when I found out that she had also decided to dive headfirst.

I just stared at her.

You dove too?

Why?

Why did either of us do that?

We had never discussed diving. There was no plan. I had not set some sort of example she felt obligated to follow.

We had both independently stood in front of the Southern Ocean and decided, Yes, headfirst seems right.

Two separate brains.

Same bad decision.

Sarah then started telling me what happened once she hit the water.

She said the cold hit her immediately, she came back up short of breath, and within seconds she could barely feel anything.

Which led to a concern I had not anticipated.

Her clothes.

Remember, she was not wearing a swimsuit.

She was wearing thermals.

And because she was so numb, she suddenly could not tell whether those thermals were still on her body.

So while I had been focused entirely on survival, Sarah had an additional problem:

Am I naked?

She was trying to breathe, swim back to the ladder, and mentally inventory her clothing at the same time.

Thermal shirt?

Unknown.

Thermal pants?

Also unknown.

Dignity?

Pending.

Thankfully, when she got out, everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.

The thermals had held strong.

Which is really more than anyone should ever ask of long underwear.

Once we were warm again and could actually feel our extremities, we were both really glad we had done it.

Would I do another polar plunge somewhere else?

Absolutely.

Would Sarah?

I’m going with no.

A very firm no.

But I still consider the whole thing a success.

I spent days trying to convince Sarah to take the plunge. She finally agreed with absolutely no appropriate clothing, walked out there in long underwear, stood barefoot in Antarctica, and then somehow decided that just jumping in wasn’t enough.

She dove headfirst.

And really, if you are going to make a questionable decision in Antarctica, you might as well fully commit.