Wednesday was a perfect day for jumping in the ocean – as far as “perfect” days for such pursuits go … in Maine … in January. So was Thursday: It was sunny. It was warm … OK, warmish … and windless.

Unfortunately for me, the day I’d agreed to actually head Down East and hop in Passamaquoddy Bay was neither of those “perfect” days.

It was Friday.

I know you just lived through it, but let me tell you about Friday. Forget the temperature you saw on your backyard thermometer. It was clearly malfunctioning. According to my incredibly accurate blubber-ometer, it was 50 degrees below zero.

If you’d like to debate that fact with me, I’d be glad to obilige. First, take off your shirt. Then go outside and wait for your skin to get good and brittle. In an hour or so, I’ll get into my snowmobile suit, waddle outside, and we can discuss the merits of my hypothesis.

So, it was 50 below … more or less. And it was time to jump in the bay … more or less.

Let me walk you through my day (for those of you who think this topic doesn’t qualify as an “outdoors column,” see the paragraph above that deals with my blubber-ometer’s accuracy … and how I feel about debates on the matter):

The day began like any other, despite the fact I’d agreed to join the Washington County Community College Student Senate on its charity Polar Bear Dip. I woke, headed downstairs, and tried (again) to show Pudge the wonder dog how to go to the green box, grab the paper, and bring it back to the house.

Since he was too busy turning into a dog-sicle to actually obey my commands, we agreed that breakfast might be a better option. I got the paper. He got cold. And I began wondering how chilly it really was.

Omen No. 1: On the way to Pleasant Point, by way of Milbridge (where I met Liz Fickett’s fifth-grade class at Milbridge Elementary School for a quick Journalism 101 session) I saw something frightening.A bank’s time-and-temperature display (which, for the record, wouldn’t have been nearly as accurate as my trusty blubber-ometer), was stuck on the “time” segment of its program.

Even the thermometer’s frozen, I thought.

The fact the clock may not have even had a thermometer function didn’t really dawn on me until much later … but if you’ve ever jumped in the ocean in January, that failure of complex reasoning skills will make perfect sense to you.

Enough omens … for now.

On to the rest of the day: Mrs. Fickett’s class was very polite, and asked all kinds of good questions. Many questions, it seemed, revolved around a common theme, which I’ll paraphrase here: Are you really stupid enough to jump in the bay in January?

Of course, they were too polite to say something like that. But were they curious about the mindset of someone who’d do such a thing? You bet.

I assured them that I was going to wade in along with a few hundred others … and told them that the cause was a good one: The Ronald McDonald House. Satisfied, they wished me luck, and promised to find out if I ended up freezing to death by watching the evening news (at least, that’s what I heard them say … though I’m pretty sure now that they said nothing of the sort).

With that, I left Milbridge and headed east, hoping I passed no more banks with time-and-temperature readings.

I didn’t. But I saw much, much worse. Omen No. 2:

Ice. Everywhere.

I know, I know. It’s been cold. Ponds freeze up. But all along Route 1, in places I was sure I’d seen tidal water in the past, all I saw was ice. Thick ice. Cold, cold ice. My blubber-ometer, which had been hovering at a steady-and-somewhat-balmy 20-below up until then, lurched even lower.

But on I drove. No, we hadn’t raised the $1,000 I’d hoped for. But readers from across the state had written words of encouragement. They’d sent their checks. And I had said I was going to swim … or waddle … or freeze trying.

Eventually, I pulled off Route 1 onto Route 190, which led to the dipping pier. The end was near … one way or another.

But there was still time for Omen No. 3.

Just before the reaching the pier, Route 190 turns into a causeway. On the right is Cobscook Bay. On the left is Passamaquoddy Bay. And there, bobbing in the waters of Cobscook Bay and piled up against the base of the causeway, were icebergs. Thousands of them.

Nobody said anything about dodging icebergs, I thought, wondering if it was too late to bail out. A glance to my left relieved me … at least a little bit: Passamaquoddy Bay – the dipping ground – was (apparently) ice-free. The blubber-ometer rose a couple ticks.

After parking at the end of a long line of cars (this is, as you can imagine, quite amusing theater for folks Down East) I trudged toward the waiting masses.

Mrs. Fickett’s class had slowed my progress … and I was running out of time. Luckily, that also meant that I was running out of time to think up excuses.

Then things happened fast.

All of the dippers (or dips, if you prefer … I’m sure some of us answer to both) began to shed clothing. Some wore Speedos or bikinis. Others cheated a bit and opted for wetsuits (which we near-naked purists thought was cheating). We all lined up, waiting for the command.

A man climbed up on a rail of the pier and exhorted the crowd. The crowd yelled back. Then he dove into the bay.

That, apparently, was the command. We charged (or waddled, as the case may be) into the water.

Organizers said the water was 36 degrees. The blubber-ometer said 80 below. Believe who you will.

Waddlewaddlewaddle. Splashing all around. Heads ducking under … and coming back up (in the Polar Dip business, that’s a good thing). I followed suit: Get out to waist deep … take a couple more steps … then take a deep breath.

(At this point, I remembered something vital, which I hoped wasn’t the first chapter of that whole “perfect clarity before death” thing I’d read about).

The Gasp Reflex. That’s what my NEWS colleague Jeff Strout taught me: The Gasp Reflex.

Sometimes, when you go under really cold water, your body will involuntarily gasp, he had told me. That’s what can get you.

This water qualified as “really cold.” I resolved not to gasp. At least, not reflexively. And then I submerged myself.

At this point, I’d love to tell you that the whole experience brought tears to my eyes, and was excruciating, and just goes to prove how tough I (and all of my fellow dips … dippers) are.

Unfortunately, I can’t.

It seems that the blubber-ometer broke.

Call it self-preservation. Call it shock. Call it what you will.

All I know is, the dunk was fine. I didn’t gasp until my snout had emerged from the froth. And my body didn’t seem to mind the whole thing at all.

My theory: My body is a bit dumber than that of the average (polar) bear, and can’t tell much of a difference between cold (like at Acadia National Park in June) and HOLY COW IS THIS COLD! LET ME OUT OF HERE BEFORE THE PENGUINS EAT ME!

It just … felt … uncomfortable. Manageably uncomfortable. The worst part: While waddling back to shore, the hair began to freeze on my chest, legs and head, turning me into a polar Chia Pet.

And I couldn’t find my towel.

Or my shirts.

Or my pants.

A nice lady in a fur coat was guarding them for me … but she was rather short (and lost in the crowd), and I was rather confused (and stumbling through the crowd).

Eventually, I found her. And my towel and shirt and pants.

And eventually, I’ll warm up.

At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.

Update: As of Friday afternoon, readers had sent $438.77 toward my Polar Bear Dip fund. Thank you all for your help.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.