Certifiably 'icesane': Polar Plungers describe -- this blows! -- the rush

By Jacob Fullmer

February 29, 2008 | Everything had the beginnings of a beautiful day on the beach. The sun was shining. People in all varieties of swim wear flocked to the water bringing food, friends and pets.

Now all they had to do was cut a hole the size of a Buick in the ice to get to the water.

Water, as is commonly known, freezes at 32 degrees Fahrenheit. The water in Hyrum Reservoir isn't much warmer today. It's also covered by 8 inches of snow and 1.5 feet of ice. Gary Saxton, who organized this year's Special Olympics Polar Plunge, describes it as, "Just [warm] enough to keep it liquid."

The Polar Plunge is an annual fund raiser for Special Olympics. This year's slogan is "Freezin' for a Reason." Divers could register weeks ahead and solicit funds or offer a small donation when they arrived before the jumping started at 11 a.m. Funds were raised to help pay the program costs of Special Olympics athletes.

The parking lot was full well before people started jumping in. Divers of all ages, some still young enough to be in elementary school, all walk down the ramp, and disregarded the disclaimer sign:

Danger
Hazardous ice
Use at Your
Own Risk

In the moments leading up to the first big jump, there's a feeling of anticipation in the air.

A group of high-school aged children dressed in shorts and T-shirts, sometimes an occasional winter coat, argue over who is going to be able to pull off the best trick. Other jumpers don't need fancy tricks to express themselves. Against the white snow, a girl matches a pink cowboy hat to a just as strikingly pink three-quarter-length wetsuit. Multiple prom queens, tiaras and all, make sure their dresses fit just right. Two boys wear black Converse tennis shoes with white stitching, knee high red socks, leather belts or vests and plungers - not sabers - to top off their iconic display of "plunging pirates."

"This Blows!"

One diver, Tom Spillman, a tall, lanky 18 -year-old, does a spread eagle at the peak of his jump just before being engulfed in the black liquid. He emerges from the water, searching for air. Then swims for the shore with all he can.

"THIS BLOWS!" Spillman screams after his bare torso and sun-starved legs fitfully emerge, covered in nothing short of a petty excuse for a real swimsuit. He runs as fast as he can without slipping, both scrawny legs still unsure of how to run on ice but constantly moving him toward a spacious green warming tent provided by the National Guard.

"It's really cool," said Sally Rampton, who defeated her husband, Jeff, in a light saber duel before they both jumped in. "You don't feel anything."

Jeff disagreed.

"Well I feel a lot," he said before promptly making his way toward the tent s.

Only a handful of the Olympians for whom the frigid jumps are being made today are on the ice. They stand together, all smiles and joking. Some of them don't compete anymore but talk about what they used to do. There is joy in their eyes. Their smiles are enough to warm the heart of any jumper stuttering out of the ice.

One of the athletes, Cam Cheshire, fights back the cold with his blue and white letterman jacket. "Utah State Special Olympics Hall of Fame Inductee" is scripted in white stitching on the back. He's sure to tell you about his accomplishment in the first five minutes of talking to him. But it doesn't come off as bragging. You're just happy for him.

Elmo skis. Travis and Chris are the snowboarders.

Wait, Elmo skis? He explains he uses a special ski called a "mono." He's in a wheelchair and doesn't have any legs.

"It's basically like a chair on one ski," his coach, Melanie Hall, says. "He's really good at it too."

Elmo gave up cross-country skiing last year because it was too tiring.

The rest of their team is on the mountain today, competing in downhill events and cross-country skiing. The money garnered from today's fund raiser, nearly $20,000, will be directed to support athletes in and around Cache Valley.

That's how the founders of Special Olympics wanted it, explains J.D. Donnelly, president and CEO of Utah Special Olympics. All of the Special Olympics events are free for families who already spend so much to raise son or daughter with special needs. Today's money will be used to pay for new equipment, coaching and travel expenses.

Donnelly doesn't support his work from a desk alone. Today, he's manning an interview camera documenting jumpers' reactions to their "Polar Plunge."

"There is actually four plunges now [around Utah]," Donnelly says. "There are three more to go this year, but this is by far the biggest and best."

Death in 24 minutes, but who's counting?

Medical personnel were on hand in case anyone went into shock or experienced mild hypothermia. For water just above freezing levels, the average person could lose consciousness after eight minutes of exposure and die after 24 minutes. Except for this year's "Super Plungers," most participants stayed in the water less than one minute.

The Super Plungers jumped every hour on the hour, for the 24 hours preceding the main plunge. Mindy Weekes committed to this marathon ice-breaking event along with five others, four of which are fellow employees of the Cache County Sheriff's Office. One of them, Misty Garn, explained that law enforcement agencies are typically very active in the Special Olympics.

After going in 23 times, Weekes stands around in a hat and gloves seemingly unaware of the temperature, which hasn't yet hit the valley's high of 25 degrees Fahrenheit.

"It doesn't feel as cold out here because you're used to freezing cold," she says with her breath crystallizing at the point of every syllable. "So this is like a tropical heat wave."

"The middle of the night were probably some of the best jumps," said Garn. "When you just got used to it, you didn't see what you were jumping into."

They had to act quickly for those dives. Volunteers stayed on hand to clear the ice all night long. The Super Plungers only had about five minutes after clearing the ice, "and then it was frozen," Garn said.

To show their commitment, all six of the super plungers were required to raise more than $1,000.

"They had to earn the right to do this," Donnelly said. "Sounds kind of backward."

A blatant disregard for normality here is, well, normal.

Craziness helps

"You don't have to be crazy to jump in, I guess, but it helps," said Cache County sheriff's Chief Deputy Dave Bennett.

Yes, this is a day on the beach just like any other. Moms, as usual, stay out of the water while their kids play. Inflatable toys dominate the water: in this case, a 10-foot tall polar bear propped up on its haunches. Even the fish are biting. Ice fishers, in their brown overalls and thick snow boots, pull their sleds loaded with gear past the freezing swimmers and farther onto the ice. They find their favorite patch of ice, drill a hole and sit back in their foldable camping chairs.

Among the cute and creative, the most shocking attire is modeled by participants of the most scantily clad contest. Some of the judges, comprised of Cache County sheriff and Utah Highway Patrol law enforcement, joke about citing Andrew Hicks for indecent exposure. Hicks, 24, purchased his attire from the Persian Peacock. He proudly refers to it as a "man-thong."

Two black strings wrap around his buttocks, which surely feeling every gust of wind. They connect in the front to a minimal cloth covering: A daisy-yellow thong with a simple, black smiley face is printed on the lower portion.

What would his mother think?

She donated $50 to the cause. All she asks for is a picture.

"So -- ah," Hicks stutters, through the clenched teeth of his wide grin. "She supports me."

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