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When I recently signed up to do my first open water swim off the coast of Provincetown, Massachusetts, I was quickly informed that swimsuits don’t cut it for the more slender swimmers who have less adipose tissue for natural insulation. Shopping online for wetsuits revealed a basic truth: one does not shop online for wetsuits. It is a personal, try-on effort at a real, physical store with doors and windows that offers a variety of sizes, styles, and brands. And so I picked a place that promised a good selection and hit the road.
I have owned springsuits—one piece wetsuits with short legs and arms – as far back as when I was a kid. But with the internet, I was getting an education that informed me I was doing it all wrong. My springsuits were always medium, and fit me loosely, filling with water when I hit the surf. The idea with any wetsuit, however, was to achieve a skin-tight fit tailored to one’s body. And so trying on several pairs with the help of an expert seemed a prudent approach.
My only other experience with wetsuits beyond my springsuits was the full-body one that my GI Joe wore when I was a kid.
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When I walked into the Wetsuit Wearhouse in Maryland, I assumed I was walking into a water world version of the GAP. Try on a few, pick the best fit and style, and walk out with a wetsuit. It would be like trying on jeans. Tight jeans. Made of rubber. That fasten around the neck instead of the waist. Yep—tight rubber, full-body jeans. Easy enough.
My only other experience with wetsuits beyond my springsuits was the full-body one that my GI Joe wore when I was a kid. I had to add talcum powder to the inside, and getting him dressed for Navy Seal combat was a struggle that took a concentrated effort from both of us. It stressed his plastic joints, no doubt resulting in arthritis months later. And it was a lesson that, if remembered, would have served me well when I walked into the Wetsuit Wearhouse.
When I saw the sign limiting try-ons to five, I asked why. My sales person told me I would find out. That should have been a clue. When she walked me back to the dressing room and offered to turn on a fan the size of a Pratt and Whitney turboprop, I should have had a clue. When she told me to take my time getting into the suit and that she’d have some coffee and see me in ten minutes, I should have certainly had a clue.
The first suit was an O’Neill—full-body, back zipper, size medium. I stripped down to my birthday suit and started to wedge my legs into the suit. By the time I was trying to bust my feet past the ankle openings, I realized I was dangerously close to herniating something. I stopped and took a breather. Got my second wind. Then pressed ahead.
Fifteen minutes later, I was dressed to my chest with the arms flapping loosely at my sides. I figured I was decent enough and stepped out of the dressing room where the salesperson helped me into the rest of the suit. My body was screaming with sweat under full constriction when she said something that transcended all bounds of logic.
At this point, I figured I had sweated half my body weight into the suit.
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“This is too loose.” I tried to process her statement and realized I simply couldn’t. But it started to make sense when she pressed the arch in my lower back and showed me how the suit bridged instead of followed it, saying that water would pool there. She also said that my chest was small and extra water would accumulate under my arms and around my rib cage. And so I began to understand the need for a different size and brand.
Taking off the suit was easier, but more emotional. She sent me back to my airplane hangar with a big cup of water that I didn’t know if I was to drink or pour over myself. At this point, I figured I had sweated half my body weight into the suit. Emotion came into play when I wondered if I had enough strength left to get out of it, or if I would die in a futile attempt to do so.
Fortunately, I was able to peel the suit off of me inside out, and another back-zipper suit was waiting on the hangar. Rip Curl. I sat and looked at it for several minutes. Took a couple of deep breaths. Set my jaw. And after another fifteen minutes, I again stepped out to get help dressing my arms. It was a better fit but failed to show any appreciable improvement following the small of my back. At this point, I was wondering if I would make it to three try-ons, much less five. She then showed me a suit with a chest zipper. Unlike the previous two, this didn’t open; the zipper merely loosened it, allowing the body to slip into it with the questionable hope of ever getting out of it. Nope. This one hit the limits for me. Having sweated out all sense of restraint and decorum, I unleashed a verbal stream of consciousness on the salesperson.
I hope someday I will use it. I know I am supposed to on this upcoming swim and am carefully weighing whether I would rather freeze to death in my swim trunks.
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“This isn’t a suit. It’s a dark rubber cave and if I step into it, I fear I will never emerge. You’ll need to launch a search and rescue mission to extract me.” The salesperson stepped back cautiously, looked at me, and smartly realized there was no reasoning with this customer. The look on her face told me she had seen this phenomenon before with wetsuit newbies like me.
In all, I tried on seven suits and ended up with a QuickSilver, size small. I hope someday I will use it. I know I am supposed to on this upcoming swim and am carefully weighing whether I would rather freeze to death in my swim trunks.
I suspect I was a little smaller and dryer leaving that store than when I walked in. I was exhausted, but even more than that, I was ravenously hungry. I drove away and immediately looked for eateries, literally gobbling down two back-to-back lunches at adjacent restaurants. And my hunger quickly returned in time for dinner.
Perhaps GI Joe was really hungry after getting into his wetsuit, too. I regret that I never thought to ask.
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Photo credit: Pixabay
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