Where I Go: The Biting Cold of Open-Water Swimming
When the Ocean Temperature Plunges in the Winter, There’s Nowhere to Hide
I’m alone in my Brooklyn apartment on a Friday night, and I’ve decided I don’t want to live anymore. It’s November 2019, and it’s the third time this year I’ve arrived at this dead-end; maybe the third time’s the charm. I can’t stop crying. I don’t do drugs but wish I did. I haven’t had a drink in two years, but the memory of single malt scotch plays on repeat. I’m fluent in the use of various weapons but have no guns, just a drawer filled with sharp culinary knives …
