New York - It’s December 7 and the first thing I do is check the weather forecast – 33 degrees and a 40-percent chance of rain or snow – not exactly beach weather. But for Dennis Thomas and the other members of the Coney Island Polar Bear Club, it was just right. With the help of the club’s website I calculate the wind chill: 19 degrees.

“It’s supposed to be really windy, so this is a great day for your first swim,” Thomas told me when I called the club the day before. 

He gave me some basic instructions: bring some old shoes in addition to swimming trunks and a towel. “The ground is pretty rough,” he said.

It had snowed the night before for the first time; winter had come. As I set out for Coney Island on the subway, I dressed as warmly as I could: three layers topped by a waterproof windbreaker, wool hat, gloves and scarf. In a couple of hours, I’ll be stripping off the layers to run into the icy ocean.

For the first time, I’m happy about the extra weight I’ve put on this fall as a stressed out, sedentary, over-snacked grad student. The added blubber should insulate me.

For the record, I’m no stranger to cold water. Growing up in Québec, I took youthful pride in being the first one in the lake in May and the last one out in October at the country houses north of Montreal where I spent summers as a child.

But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more of a wimp. I’ve found ways of showing off that don’t involve physical pain. I’m growing soft. I wonder if I’ve still got what it takes.

Thomas asks me if I know Coney Island. I’ve been a couple of times, but I don’t go there to swim. The beach and the water don’t look very clean. Now, that’s the least of my worries.

Coney Island in winter has a desolate beauty. A bright burst of sun shines through the low grey clouds and where the light hits the water, the sea shimmers.

The Wonder Wheel and the Cyclone at the futuristic Astroland are frozen in time. The amusement park was mothballed in September. The stalls along the boardwalk, with their garish signs, are shuttered. The wind whips through the rides, making a distant moaning sound. I stop at the only open store. “Going to the swim?” the wizened clerk asks me. “Ya. Have you gone swimming?” I ask. “Sure,” he says. “In summer.” And laughs.

“Shit, I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I catch myself muttering as I walk to the aquarium where the polar bear swimmers meet every Sunday at 1.

I spot a lone figure walking fast, leaning into the wind. His black satin jacket emblazoned with a polar bear on an ice floe signals me to follow him.

In the education room of the New York Aquarium, about 75 people are milling around, greeting each other and catching up. There is a casual jocularity; the kind you’d find in the locker room of an old-timers hockey team.

The turnout is high today; the club is electing its vice president. Thomas, the Polar Bear’s president, calls the group to order. He’s easy to spot -- he’s the tallest man in the room. He’s dressed in blue Speedo trunks and water booties that among this crew are the most popular form of footwear.

“We want to welcome Louis Padilla back,” Thomas says, and the crowd greets the 25-year veteran with hearty applause. Thomas reminds the swimmers, several of whom are former servicemen, that today is Pearl Harbor Day. He asks everyone to think about the sacrifices of our men and women in uniform.

Then the winner of the election is announced. Tony Nastro is a short, heavy-set, balding man with long grey hair that starts at the back of his head. “I’m here to serve,” Nastro tells the group. “Any time somebody wants to swim, call me the night before, and if have plans I can change, which is most of the time, I’ll make it happen.”

A burly man in a blue bathrobe covered with white polar bears – everyone seems to have a hat or a shirt with the club’s totem animal on it – waits in line to change in the tiny men’s room. I ask him how he got involved with the club. Before he can answer, another man chimes in. “They let him out the insane asylum. The bus from Creedmore stops down the block.”

The man in the polar bear bathrobe is Rob Paul. He says his wife Denise convinced him to come three years ago, and they’ve been driving in from Babylon, L.I., to the weekly swim every since. They also attend annual charity swims on Super Bowl Sunday in Long Beach, and in Oyster Bay on March 1.

Not everyone is a veteran. A tall man in yellow trunks and Crocs stops to give me some pointers on how to wear my own Crocs so they won’t fall off in the surf. This is only his third time, Julian Wiseman says; he’s working his way to the mandatory 12 swims it takes to become a member. He joined the club for the same reason he joined crazy drinking clubs in the U.K. – because its fun.

Before I can swim, I’m told to sign a three-page waiver. “Our insurance guys require it,” says Thomas. Without reading it, I sign my name. All this waiting is starting to make me anxious.

As we prepare to head out, I get a few words of advice from Thomas. “Once you’re in the water, you don’t have to stay. We do this for fun,” Thomas says. “After it stops being fun, get out and find somewhere else to have fun.”

The swimmers file out onto the boardwalk and pose against the aquarium wall for a group picture. Just as the photographer hits the button, an old man on an electric scooter drives right in front of the camera, sending everyone into fits of laughter.

And we’re off. Thomas blows from a conch shell and everyone whoops and hollers as they storm the beach. People jump up and down in a large circle to get the blood flowing. Off to the side, three fully clothed lifeguards run around trying to stay warm.

A few minutes later, we rush into the sea. The swimmers link hands in a large circle and the whooping and hollering continues. I feel nothing at first; it’s like the moments after an accident when the body is in shock. Pretty quickly sensation returns – with a vengeance. It feels as if a thousand red ants are crawling over my skin. Spontaneously, I start doing some version of Lamaze breathing exercises to ease the pain.

Just as suddenly as it comes, the pain subsides and a wonderful serenity takes over. I remember now why I used to go swimming in the freezing Canadian lakes and rivers of my youth; it was more than boyish bravado. On the other side of the pain lies a peaceful radiance.

That warm glow stays with me as I make my way back up the beach to the aquarium with Nastro and a fellow polar bear, who trade stories of their days in the service.

“Careful,” Nastro tells me a few minutes later as I prepare to head home, “it’s addictive.”

He’s right.