BECOMING A WALRUS
Blagoveshchensk, Russia
2003, 2011
In Russia, they call the people who dunk themselves in icy rivers morzhei, “walruses.” When I scampered up the ladder through the hole in the foot-thick ice on the Zeya after a swift immersion, I was christened Morzhishka, which I like to translate as “Dear Little Walrus.”
I don’t like getting wet or cold, but I needed to do something significant. The heirs to the KGB had confiscated my passport for “Illegal Journalism,” and expelled me from the country I had called home for a year and a half. I was trying to view this as an inconvenience and not a catastrophe.
It’s magical thinking, of course, but when they reconsidered and let me stay, it crossed my mind that this was a fair trade for making a commitment to do something I was sure I wouldn’t like one bit.
Strangest of all, I ended up liking it a lot. Not only those few seconds when I was submerged, but also the fuss of three Russian matrons getting me dry and dressed warmly, and the thermos of tea on the ride home, and telling this story to so many amazed listeners, and writing it just now for you.
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