Cold water seeps into my shoes, stealing the heat from my soles just as fast as the wind steals from my face. My face is soaked, the drops coming together to run into my eyes and drip from my chin. My heat has run to my core to shelter and hoard the warmth that remains. For this long road, in this wintry storm, the frigid downpour and the icy puddles are my nemesis.
Cold water is the most efficient thief of heat I know. It takes what it does not need. The river at my feet will be just as icy when I have crosses as before, yet my blood will be almost frozen in my veins. Before even a boot is submerged, my skin is rough with goosebumps, pointless as they are. The water surges around my skin, rising up my leg on one side, making tiny eddies on the other. The weight of the water is almost enough to topple me, the current enough to take me far down stream. What worries me more is that at this low temperature my muscles will simply give up. Crossing in such cold water is a compromise: fast enough not become hypothermic and steady enough not to fall.
Drinking cold water in this heat feels like the greatest luxury on earth. The ice falls against the glass, my fingers sliding on the condensation before my fingers regain their grip. I feel the chill run down my esophagus and my head makes an involuntary shake. A numbness creeps into my brain the way it did when I was a kid drinking too much slurpee too fast. It's the reverse of the winter time, when all I want is the feel the heat of good coffee come through a thick clay mug. When the glass is drained I take the ice between my molars and bite hard, feeling it melt into cold pools on my palate.
The thin ice on top of the puddles cracks under boot and the loamy scent of the air is gone. Old man winter has robbed the woods of its usual charm and replaced it with a barren beauty. The path halts at a river, each side lined with denuded trees. Their branches are whitened by last nights snowfall and reach starkly against the blue-white skyline. Frigid water tumbles over the rocky bed, briefly turning white. I train my eyes right and left for a bridge, there is none...
The leaves turned golden weeks ago and still we go to the outdoor pool. There is no getting in slowly. The only way is to dive in and let the cold water surround you all at once, hoping the heat from your muscles will be enough to keep the shivering at bay. The chlorinated soup is cold enough to make my lips blue even with non-stop front crawl. I pull myself onto the side, limbs shaking. The season for swimming with the sun on my face is over.
The water is so cold Maddison screams. She knew it was coming, she asked to be hosed down. Once the shock wears off she'll smile. The slight breeze on wet clothes is the finest way to cool outside. She stands in a puddle, dripping on the patio that must feel hot to her bare feet. In just a second her face lights up, her teeth flashing white in the sun. Cold water is the only antidote she needs to high August heat, works like magic every time.
James drinks the cold water like its going out of style. His gulps are so large the noise is more a seal swallowing a fish. When he finishes he simply holds out the glass for a refill, wetness playing on his lips for the first time in hours.
Cold water runs down Greg's arm, almost freezing as it goes. His beard is no longer brown but white with ice-crystals, as are his eyebrows. The frozen wasteland has imparted a faux-aging that suits him. I shan't tell him though. Since he gave me the only jacket suitable for subzero conditions I'm the only one comfortable enough to have such frivolous thoughts.
The ice breaks beneath my boots: cold water, no breath, pain. The sunlight that was so strong just seconds ago is a blur. My arms flail against the icy water that steals heat from every part of my skin. My head hits ice. Bubbles brush my cheek. One hand finds the gap, shooting into the wintry air. I sink just a little before asking my body for one final push for the light. A hand clasps mine and seconds later my body is shaking so violently on the ice that I cannot form a coherent thought. My lungs drink in the air in noisy rasps and again the hands come, urgent voices, instructions...
When the faucet finally gives way the old copper pipes start to sing - a chorus from the crumbling brick an plaster. The water doesn't flow, but splutters, spitting it out in chaotic bursts. Adam reaches forward only to retract his hand even faster. It isn't simply cold water, it's orange and dirt flecked. Somewhere down the line is an iron pipe. He glanced over his shoulder at Chloe who gave a brief nod, face stoic, before bending to drink.
The rain that falls this November is so different from the months we've just had. Before the drops were so ambient, all they brought was wetness. The blessings from the clouds alight on my skin with the coldness of the season ahead. There is a point where the autumn takes on more of a wintry feel and for me this is it. The summery half is spent. I tilt my head to the graphite sky and let the cold water cover my skin. Pushing back winter is as pointless as wishing the tide not rise up sands on a summers day.