I thought I understood what happens to your body in frigid water. Then I fell in

This First Person piece is by Jacob Ulrich, a master’s student in biology at the University of Saskatchewan. He is originally from Milestone, Sask. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

A splash, a flash of panic and a thump in my chest like a freight train. That’s what I felt when I fell into the frigid water of Saskatchewan’s Buffalo Pound Lake in May 2021. 

I had been paddling hard in my new kayak and went a little past the tipping point. When I reached that point of no return and knew I was going into the water, I quickly began to mentally prepare for what would come next.

I thought I knew exactly how my body would react to the water. For the past three years, I’ve been a volunteer with Amphibious Response Support Unit One, an organization based in Fort Qu’Appelle, Sask., that specializes in cold water rescues and water safety education. 

I knew the 1-10-1 rule for cold water immersion: one minute for cold shock, 10 minutes of usable muscle movement, then one hour before going unconscious from hypothermia. I also knew many people gasp and inhale water when they first enter the water. 

I managed to keep my head above the surface with the help of a life-jacket. I tensed my whole body and clenched my mouth so I wouldn’t suck in any water if my head went under. 

The water felt cold as ice but also burned. It was like holding my tongue to an icy pole except it was my whole body. My brain was buzzing from all the pain. I could barely string thoughts together, but I felt incredibly nervous from the fear of this new sensation.

The pain surprised me so much that my chest heaved. I couldn’t help but take a big breath. 

When the body experiences this much pain, the heart rate can increase out of fear. An elevated heart rate can cause people to panic and put themselves in greater danger. In cold water, the body will constrict the blood vessels in arms and legs so more blood is kept around vital organs to keep them warm. 

It took me about 90 seconds to get my breathing under control, but my heart was racing and my mind was buzzing. I focused and tried to flip my kayak over, but failed. 

I knew I was only about 45 metres from shore. I could have easily swam that far in the summer, but with my body redirecting blood away from my muscles, it was going to be much harder. 

As I swam, my legs and arms felt like they were being stabbed with thousands of tiny knives. Each little muscle fibre was straining. I was exhausted after just a few strokes.

I remember feeling foolish that I tried to flip my kayak upright. It felt like I had wasted precious time that I could’ve been swimming to shore. 

I couldn’t get my arms out of the water for a front crawl, so I slowly dog paddled toward shore. My feet finally touched the lake’s bottom, but my tired legs couldn’t support my weight. I half-swam, half-crawled onto shore and waited to warm up before I could stand, now having a deep mistrust of my own body.

I thought my 10 minutes of usable muscle movement would be plenty of time to get me to shore, but my muscles and nerves shut down more quickly than I anticipated. Despite my training on what cold water does to the body, I only barely saved myself. 

I suspect that without that training, I may have ended up another drowning statistic. Cold water hijacked my body so quickly. It shows no remorse and will kill you without a second thought. According to the Red Cross, about 200 Canadians die from cold water immersion each year — half of them during recreational activities.

I still love kayaking, but I’m a lot more careful. I always try to go with a friend and treat being on the water like bull riding. It can be fun when respected, but dangerous if underestimated. I’ve learned the best way to deal with cold water is to ensure that I never end up in it in the first place. I didn’t have to be paddling so hard that day.

I’m still not afraid of cold water, but I certainly have more respect for it than I did before.

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