Well, at least I’m not in my underpants. “I forgot to pack my swimming trunks,” says the man behind me with a nervous laugh, crossing his hands awkwardly in front of an off-white pair of Y-fronts. I smile sympathetically and assure him nobody will notice, which is a lie but not a big one, because most people in this queue are too preoccupied with what’s coming next to notice a middleaged man in his undies.
They know it’s going to hurt. Ahead, there’s a squeal and a splash, and a raucous cheer from the onlookers, and the line moves forward again. Another squeal, another roar, another step closer to the end. My turn comes far too soon. I’m led to the platform at the back of the ship, a thin lattice of metal above a sea that’s black, deep and very, very cold. Someone attaches a line around my waist, which the crew will use to haul me back with if I go into shock. What am I doing?! There’s an iceberg over there, for heaven’s sake. I hesitate like a child on a high board. Another second, and I definitely won’t do it. But my body unlocks and I make the leap, and then I’m gasping and cursing in the water, and scrabbling back aboard with my skin on fire, while Captain Underpants is ushered forward for his own moment of reckoning.
The Polar Plunge has become a rite of passage on trips like these, a reinvented walking of the plank that concludes with fluffy dressing gowns, shots of vodka and triumphant high-fives between those who dare to jump. And, of course, the symbolism is unmistakable: ‘immersive’ experiences are what a week-long journey into the fjords of
