You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.
Hypothermia. (from Greek υποθερμία) is a condition in which core temperature drops below the required temperature for normal metabolism and body functions which is defined as 35.0 °C (95.0 °F).
When I think Hypothermia, I usually think of swimming with the Titanic, dancing with polar bears naked or getting stranded in the Swiss Alps without a Saint Bernard or his barrel of rum.
But Hypothermia doesn’t have to come with an exotic locale. It can happen anywhere – anytime. Hypothermia is the cold house guest who knocks on your door without telling you it’s coming to visit.
The Monterey Bay is never much warmer than 56 to 58 degrees. Something to do with a deep water trench off shore and a current that comes from the North.
For a Sea Otter 56 degrees is lovely, but for human beings not so much.
The day begins with a football game on Carmel Beach.
It’s foggy and the breeze is constant off shore. Pebble Beach and its lush fairways serve as a back drop. People walk by with long
pants and long sleeves.
This beach vacation brought to you by Pantagonia.
So we work up a sweat playing a crazy game of two hand touch.
My daughter knows nothing about football and she believes that when her 13 year old brother comes off the line as a receiver she must tackle him and sit on him till the play is completed.
That’s a penalty I shout.
Prove it she retorts, my youngest son wiping sand from his ear canal.
The game is a farce but fun. After 30 minutes, I’m exhausted. I scream half time, dad needs a break.
My daughter wants to be a Navy Seal and is fearless. She crashes into the Pacific. She begins howling like a banchee, screaming with delight.
“It’s freezing. I love it.”
She loves the cold. Dont’ ask me why. Perhaps in another life she was an orca or an ice cube in constant need of cooling.
She begins body surfing and flopping around in 5 and 6 foot waves. I can almost see icicles forming in her hair. I shudder as a cool blast of foggy ocean mist slaps me in the pores.
My oldest son enters the icy choppy sea. I watch him grimace.
“It’s freezing,” he says trying to tippy toe himself out of the chill.
It’s like watching an episode of Most Dangerous catch without the crabs and nets.
My 13 year old finally decides to go in. Unlike the other two, he is skin and bones. He has no body fat and he chills more quickly than an ex wife who missed an alimony payment.
If the other two kids are sea otters, little man is a skeleton with skin.
Frankly I am shocked that he goes in at all. I’m amazed that he stays in, for perhaps 15 minutes.
The water is icy cold. It’s champagne chilling, brain freeze cold.
I walk in up to my calfs. I feel goose bumps form.
I take pictures. I listen to them having fun. I smile at people walking by wearing fur coats eye balling the kids in the frigid ocean suspiciously.
Are they from Antarctica they whisper to one another.
Suddenly little man comes out. He is shivering.
“Come on, let’s get you a towel,” I shout over the roar of the Carmel surf.
I wrap him in a towel and he shivers. I put my sweat shirt on him, and his shivering grows worse.
You OK dude?
He doesn’t answer. He just shivers harder.
I wrap another towel around him and lay him on the blanket out of the wind.
He shivers and says little. I figure he will warm up soon, but he doesn’t.
He seems to be shaking harder.
Five minutes later the other two kids arrive.
“I can’t feel my extremeties,” my daughter pronounces. “That was so awesome. I’m freezing.”
She looks at little man who is covered by a mound of sweat shirts and towels.
“How’s he doing?”
“Not so well. I think his body core is low. We need to warm him up.”
“He is pretty skinny,” my daughter says.
That’s an understatement. Like the Irish enjoy their whiskey, like Californians like their Tofu, like Tennesseans like their pick up trucks.
We put him in the car. I put on the heat. He is still shaking. He doesn’t look blue but he is definitely not normal. He has 2 towels and two sweat shirts wrapped around him like the Sultan of surf.
For whatever reason he is not warming up.
“Hypothermia?” I say aloud to no one in particular. I don’t know much about it, but I’m starting to think about it as I drive.
We get to the house. The sun is out and the wind is minimal. It feels hot to me. I sit little man on a chair in the warmth.
The little house dog, a Daschund is black. It has been laying in the sun and has absorbed the heat. Like a yapping blanket I lay the tiny animal in his lap as well.
His brother makes him a cup of hot chocolate and he sips it.
Life begins to stir.
A few minutes pass and he begins to act normally.
“You OK?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says.
And with that he sheds a towel and a sweat shirt. He sips his hot chocolate and pets the dog.
I Google Hypothermia. I don’t know that he had it, but he was certainly heading down that road. I’m glad that we got out when we did. Could have spoiled an otherwise great day.
Crazy.