OLD ORCHARD BEACH — Last week, I was visiting the land of soft white sand and perpetually warm water, my hometown in Southwest Florida. Thursday, I ran into the Atlantic Ocean on Jan. 1 in Old Orchard Beach, my limbs partially numb and my extremities fully devoid of sensation.

This is not my usual idea of fun.

Chalk it up to poor circulation, my Floridan upbringing or just a general aversion to discomfort, but I am not one for chilly water. I’ve declined to dye my hair to avoid the requisite cold showers. At a sauna, when offered the option of the cold plunge, I skip it. 

But I was at the 38th annual New Year’s Day Lobster Dip to benefit Special Olympics Maine, acting on the adage: it’s either a good time or a good story. 

The cards seemed stacked against me from the beginning, with temperatures in the low 20s, wind gusts and light snow flurries. Before surrendering to the waves, I sought the advice of some long-time dippers inside the lounge of The Brunswick hotel, which hosts participants before and after they plunge.

Peter Bernier, 64, has been dipping for about two decades. His cardinal rule is don’t tip-toe in. 

“If you start to feel the cold, you won’t want to keep going. You’ll freeze,” he advised me. “You’ve got to run in.”

Others counseled me about the lead-up. 

“Don’t fall for when everyone starts getting ready,” said Mark Rodrigue, 61, who has been running into the ocean every New Year’s Day since the late 1980s. He cautioned me to wait until the last possible second to strip down to my swimsuit. “Until they actually do the countdown, you still have time.”

Katherine LaCasse has done nearly 20 dips, and surprised me with her answer.

“You should expect the water to be warmer than the air,” LaCasse, 43, told me. 

The Lobster Dip began nearly 40 years ago at Portland’s East End Beach, when the Portland Rugby Club started hosting annual New Year’s polar plunges and donating any money raised to Special Olympics Maine, which provides training and athletic competitions for athletes with intellectual disabilities. Now, the event attracts hundreds — on Thursday, about 450 participants dipped, collectively raising more than $160,000 for the organization.

Caroline Cole, vice president of operations for Special Olympics Maine, said that’s about typical. Every participant has to fundraise at least $100, but most do more. There are some groups that get together and compete to out-fundraise one another. About five years ago, the event had grown so big that organizers split the dip into two waves.

Soon enough, it was time to head out to the beach. When the countdown reached one, I became swept up in the camaraderie, and ran toward the water like my feet – fully numb as they were – were making their own decisions.

LaCasse proved right: the water felt warmer than the air. After wading out knee-deep, a wave crashed into my side from the left, soaking me up to my chest, and I decided it was time to go under. I dropped myself under the surface up to my neck, barely registering the sensation, before turning back for the shore. 

I learned, through conversations with veterans, that the cause is a much bigger motivator than anything about the arctic plunge itself. Everyone gets anxious, everyone fears the cold. They all just want to get in and out as fast as possible, and raise money for an organization they’re passionate about.

“Everybody has reservations about jumping into the ocean,” Bernier said. “Today, with the wind howling? You’re reserved. You’re gonna go in, but you know it’s going to be cold.”

I asked Mark Rodrigue, who has more than 30 years of polar plunges under his belt, if he likes the dip.

“I enjoy this,” he said, gesturing around the lively lounge of The Brunswick with a laugh. “The before and after. The after is usually much better than the dip.”

I know what they mean. There’s a catharsis in having done something downright unpleasant. The best part is when it’s over, which happens so soon – it was less than two minutes from the end of the countdown until I was wrapped in a robe, thrilled to have done something so uncharacteristic.