32: Why I Swam to a Sandbar in Really Cold Water.

Note: This chapter deals with suicidal thoughts.

Uh Mark, that sounds exactly like something that every Floridian has done at some point, so why should we keep reading? Have I mentioned this was just a few days ago, and the Atlantic Ocean was just a mere 17ºC/64ºF. For comparison, if I were wading in the Gulf of MEXICO, just off Sanibel Island, I would be in balmy 21ºC/70.5°F water.

But alas, I was in Daytona Beach, a town with an identity crisis for decades. Disclaimer: During the ‘80s and early ‘90s I helped promote the area as THE place to be during Spring Break, and via my contacts in the club scene, I secured photography contracts with over 90% of the venues having anything to do with Spring Break.

One of my tamer photos from a “Best Bod” contest at Penrod’s Daytona, 1988.

Sorry, just three paragraphs in, and WHAM! I already meandered away from the topic.

But this was Daytona Beach during low tide, which meant a sandbar was roughly seventy-five yards offshore. You could tell it was there because Mother Ocean was breaking small waves over it. I also knew there was a trough between the water’s edge and the sandbar. Damn right, I was in “hmmm, I wonder how cold the ocean is” mode. When the ambient temperature is in the 80s and the water is nowhere close to that, it feels VERY COLD to the touch.

I stood at the water’s edge, with the ocean lapping over my feet. A few more steps and