A cold night

You never know what life will throw at you. There have been a fair number of times over the years where I’ve found myself in a situation that I never saw coming and thought, how did I end up here, at this very moment? I can recall one such occasion. It was a cold Friday night in May. The weather up until this day had been beautiful; warm sunshine that teased summer, but we all know that May can be an unpredictable month in Minnesota. The temperature swung thirty degrees overnight from the previous day. Unfortunately for me, it swung in the wrong direction. 

Friday night was the carnival at the elementary school my kids go to, a fun end-of-the-year tradition where the PTO organizes a carnival fundraiser for the students. Food trucks are brought in, there’s a few rides, bounce houses, tons of games, and an old carnival favorite… the dunk tank. 

At that time, I worked as an instructional assistant at the school. An email had gone out looking for more volunteers to sign up and take a turn in the dunk tank. I pondered this email for a few days, swaying back-n-forth and dragging my feet about whether or not I would sign up. After much debate, I made the decision to get my feet wet, no pun intended. 

Earlier in the week, I mentioned to the head custodian that I signed up to sit in the dunk tank. He told me that he had been filling the tank for many years, and how he always used warm water, around seventy degrees. The idea of falling into cold water didn’t concern me too much, but hearing seventy degrees sounded good to me. 

I arrived the night of the carnival and ran into the custodian. He said the company that delivered the tank didn’t drop it off in the usual spot and that he didn’t have a hose long enough to reach the hot water located at the back of the school, and his only option was to fill the tank with cold water. What started as a fun way to support the kids and school, was starting to twist sideways and go south in a hurry.

A few school staff members had gone before me. They looked cold, one of them described the experience as “miserable.” My heart sank and my mind raced, recalling the mental debate of going back and forth on whether or not to sign up. Too late, my fate was sealed, the show must go on as the saying goes. 

I took my time climbing the tank ladder and inching onto the narrow plank that held me above the frigid pool. Since I wasn’t the first victim, the carpeted plank was saturated. Freezing cold water soaked through my shorts, I could hear kids laughing and squealing in the background. The first pitch screamed by before I could even settle in. My heart hammered against my ribcage when that softball slammed into the back of the cage. Thankfully, these were elementary aged kids throwing and not the pitching staff of the Minnesota Twins. I relaxed as the second pitch missed by a couple of feet and found myself breathing a little easier. 

Then, the first strike. I remember a split-second delay as the ball hit the bullseye and pushed the metal arm inward and the bottom fell out from underneath me… splash. 

Wow! That was cold, but not as cold as some of the others who’d gone before me made it seem. Well, that didn’t last long, especially dunk after dunk after dunk. Down I went, getting colder and colder with each fall, quickly beginning to understand why the experience was described as miserable. Sitting on that small plank, skin exposed to the chilly outside air, the thoughts came. How’d I get myself into this? 

I was the last contestant of the night, when I was done the dunk tank would close. The night was young. I couldn’t quit early and disappoint the children, could I? I hung in until I couldn’t any longer, finally throwing up a white flag in surrender. I climbed down the ladder and ran into the school with a towel and change of clothes my wife had brought. I stood in the bathroom, lips blue and body shivering. I went home and spent the rest of the night huddled next to the fireplace. I never warmed up.

I woke up in the middle of the night; legs aching like they were on fire. It dawned on me that my bare feet pounded at least thirty times against the metal tank bottom situated on a cement sidewalk. My advice, if you ever find yourself sitting on a narrow plank, suspended above a large pool of water, be sure and wear something on your feet, preferably with a rubber sole.

The dunk tank is a fun memory for me now, and the kids got a kick out of it, some still bring it up from time-to-time when I run into them, and we have a good laugh. Would I do it again? I guess that’s up for debate.