Coupeville Sports

“You da woman, Penn Cove. Nicely played, you icy vixen!!”

In the end, I guess I still have a brain.

Or else I’m just being a wimp. Yeah, probably the latter.

Either way, today (Nov. 22) was the 222nd and final day I will go into Penn Cove this year. It’s 55 days more than my 2011 record of 167 days and much deeper into the calendar than I went in either ’11 or ’12.

Both those years, the rain eventually made the Hill O’ Death in front of my house too dangerous to go down, and after minor slips, I chose not to tempt fate and the possibility of a big slip.

Especially on a hill where a big slip would send you into open space way, way above the rocky beach.

This year, though, the hill has held up fairly well. No big rains. No slips, minor or otherwise.

But something has drastically changed in the past two days, and, for the first time in three years, I actually hit a point where I have to be smart and walk away.

The water in Penn Cove is always cold — always, always, always, regardless of whether it’s a 90-degree August day or an early morning November nip-fest. It is what it is, and you convince yourself to overcome it.

But the past two days, with the drop in outside temperature, frost everywhere and water freezing in the bowl my landlord’s pack of outside-living wild alley cats drink from, Penn Cove went from unfriendly to brutal to seriously-dude-you’re-gonna-hurt-yourself.

Today, as I headed back on the second leg of my underwater lap, having made the turn at the big rock that sits like the ruler of the frozen tundra, I actually could feel my legs trying to shut down.

There is cold. There is mild pain. And then there is the sensation that your legs are giving up and preparing to desert you.

I’ve ridden chop that beat me like a rag doll. Faced screaming wind and had frost on the ground before. But I’ve never had the water in Penn Cove suck the life out of me like that until now.

I had it some in Day 221, but Day 222 upped the ante.

When I got out of the water — having completed my lap (I’m not a tourist and I’m not getting out early and walking back on the beach), resembling a giant, pink goosebump, I, for once in my life, chose the smarter path.

I don’t need to see what Day 223 would feel like.

Well played, Penn Cove. Well played. I’ll be back. Just not in 2013.