The great Canadian polar bear plunge: A history

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Whether it’s a longing for new beginnings or a burning desire to drown a hangover, from Finland to Panama, from dropping balls to smashing pomegranates, much of the world loves nothing more than a head-scratching — if not head-clearing — New Year’s ritual.

In Canada, quite fittingly, we’ve played to the crowd who assume we break from the permafrost only to drink beer and wear silly hats by adopting the polar bear swim as our first-day frivolity.

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Alas, this New Year’s Day act of masochism, also known as the dip or the plunge — and to some simply as lunacy — cannot be claimed as a solely Canadian development.

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It is most commonly ascribed to the Coney Island Polar Bear Club, which is still tingling to the delights of cold-water bathing. In 1903, its members inaugurated the New Year’s Day tradition by braving the New Jersey shore when it was known for its unwelcoming breakers rather than its buff reality-TV show-offs. Boston followed in 1904.

But it was on the west coast where the Polar Bear Swim — and its place in Canadian lore — got its moorings.

Just over a century ago, in 1920, a Greek immigrant pitched up in Vancouver determined to continue a practice that had been instilled in him since the age of four: a daily dip in the ocean.

Never mind that Vancouver’s beaches were considerably less balmy than those of the Mediterranean. Peter Pantages was on a mission. His entrepreneurial streak never far from the surface, Pantages had soon convinced a few pals to join him on his solo swims, thus giving birth in 1920 to the 10-member Polar Bear Swim Club.

As Tom Hawthorn described it for Montecristo magazine, the idea of a Christmas dash into the sea (as it was originally) would morph from a “spontaneous lark enjoyed by a handful of friends” into a globally recognized event complete with its own merch. The century-old club is now one of the oldest and largest in the world.

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Pantages was 11 when he and his family emigrated to North America to help run a chain of vaudeville theatres established by his uncle Alexander, his open-air swimming fixation undimmed by Canadian winters.

Such was the lad’s obsession, he later reached an agreement when travelling with the Union Steamship Co. to allow him a quick dip overboard every day — or a salt bath onboard when that wasn’t feasible.

As word spread of Pantages’s briny exploits, Vancouverites eager for something to take their minds off world wars, economic depressions, and soggy skies, embraced his festive plunge in English Bay with costumed fervour.

The Pantages family, spotting a clear marketing opportunity, began to invite shivering participants back to their two Peter Pan cafés in the city’s West End for post-swim infusions of hot chocolate and hot toddies.

Newshounds, frustrated then and now by the dearth of festive headlines, turned Pantages’s escapades into the hottest story in town (at least for a day) and by the 1950s the polar bear swim was firmly established on the young city’s social calendar.

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Pantages’s granddaughter, Lisa Pantages, who was three months old when she took part in her first polar bear swim, said its popularity rose in tandem with his love for his adopted city.

“It grew from there as my grandfather grew in the community of Vancouver,” Lisa told The Spokesman-Review newspaper. “He realized what a great thing this was to bring people together.”

Apart from Peter — who was club president for 51 years — two characters stand out: Harry (Ironman) Kovish and Ivy Granstrom.

Also known as “Old King Cold,” Kovish iced out Armenian strongman Kirkor Hekemian to become cold-water endurance champion in what copy-starved reporters branded the defining “Cold War.” As writer Hawthorn recalls, it “got plenty of ballyhoo” and clinched Kovish’s place as a B.C. legend.

Granstrom, meanwhile, was an inspirational figure from the moment she first took the polar plunge in 1928 at age 16. Declared legally blind as a child, the Fernie native was a cleaner and cook for miners before training as a nurse during the war.

Later working as a waitress, she never missed a swim and by the 1990s was given the honour of taking to the surf in advance of the liquored-up mobs stamping their feet in anticipation behind her. The “Queen of the Polar Bears” took her final dip — her 77th consecutive outing — in 2004 at age 92. She died four months later.

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As for Peter, he died in harness — so to speak — in 1971. At the age of 69 — and after 18,000 daily aquatic sessions — he expired from a suspected heart attack while swimming off Waikiki Beach in Hawaii.

A beachside plaque in Vancouver commemorates his legacy, and in 2017 the city named Pantages Lane in the West End in his honour.

Following Peter’s death, his son Basil took over running the New Year’s Day swim in concert with the city parks board. It was around this time, as well, that the donning of outlandish outfits really took root.

Mr. Dressup had nothing on this mob. Over the years English Bay has seen Mad Hatters, Wonder Women, The Flash, as well as a rogues’ gallery of scuba divers, pirates, clowns, vikings, sharks, brides and tanked-up gents in tuxedoes.

The Polar Bear Swim set a record during its 100th anniversary in 2020 with 6,000 registered swimmers — smashing the previous mark set in 2014 of 2,550. It went “virtual” in 2021 but stormed back this year.

Of all its characters, the most unpredictable is the sea itself. With typical temperatures ranging from 2 to 9 degrees Celsius, the waters of English Bay can throw up plenty of surprises. And that’s if you can reach the shore without freezing — in 1963 parks board staff had to plow a trail through two feet (0.6 metres) of snow.

To deal with numbing conditions, Lisa recommends her granddad’s hack — lathering on some olive oil — though she cautions against lathering up on pre-dive booze.

Post-plunge? That’s a different story. The Peter Pan Café is long gone but as Lisa has pointed out: “There’s nothing wrong with a little refreshing elixir afterward.”

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Whether it’s a longing for new beginnings or a burning desire to drown a hangover, from Finland to Panama, from dropping balls to smashing pomegranates, much of the world loves nothing more than a head-scratching — if not head-clearing — New Year’s ritual.

In Canada, quite fittingly, we’ve played to the crowd who assume we break from the permafrost only to drink beer and wear silly hats by adopting the polar bear swim as our first-day frivolity.

Article content

Alas, this New Year’s Day act of masochism, also known as the dip or the plunge — and to some simply as lunacy — cannot be claimed as a solely Canadian development.

Article content

It is most commonly ascribed to the Coney Island Polar Bear Club, which is still tingling to the delights of cold-water bathing. In 1903, its members inaugurated the New Year’s Day tradition by braving the New Jersey shore when it was known for its unwelcoming breakers rather than its buff reality-TV show-offs. Boston followed in 1904.

But it was on the west coast where the Polar Bear Swim — and its place in Canadian lore — got its moorings.

Just over a century ago, in 1920, a Greek immigrant pitched up in Vancouver determined to continue a practice that had been instilled in him since the age of four: a daily dip in the ocean.

Never mind that Vancouver’s beaches were considerably less balmy than those of the Mediterranean. Peter Pantages was on a mission. His entrepreneurial streak never far from the surface, Pantages had soon convinced a few pals to join him on his solo swims, thus giving birth in 1920 to the 10-member Polar Bear Swim Club.

As Tom Hawthorn described it for Montecristo magazine, the idea of a Christmas dash into the sea (as it was originally) would morph from a “spontaneous lark enjoyed by a handful of friends” into a globally recognized event complete with its own merch. The century-old club is now one of the oldest and largest in the world.

Article content

Pantages was 11 when he and his family emigrated to North America to help run a chain of vaudeville theatres established by his uncle Alexander, his open-air swimming fixation undimmed by Canadian winters.

Such was the lad’s obsession, he later reached an agreement when travelling with the Union Steamship Co. to allow him a quick dip overboard every day — or a salt bath onboard when that wasn’t feasible.

As word spread of Pantages’s briny exploits, Vancouverites eager for something to take their minds off world wars, economic depressions, and soggy skies, embraced his festive plunge in English Bay with costumed fervour.

The Pantages family, spotting a clear marketing opportunity, began to invite shivering participants back to their two Peter Pan cafés in the city’s West End for post-swim infusions of hot chocolate and hot toddies.

Newshounds, frustrated then and now by the dearth of festive headlines, turned Pantages’s escapades into the hottest story in town (at least for a day) and by the 1950s the polar bear swim was firmly established on the young city’s social calendar.

Article content

Pantages’s granddaughter, Lisa Pantages, who was three months old when she took part in her first polar bear swim, said its popularity rose in tandem with his love for his adopted city.

“It grew from there as my grandfather grew in the community of Vancouver,” Lisa told The Spokesman-Review newspaper. “He realized what a great thing this was to bring people together.”

Apart from Peter — who was club president for 51 years — two characters stand out: Harry (Ironman) Kovish and Ivy Granstrom.

Also known as “Old King Cold,” Kovish iced out Armenian strongman Kirkor Hekemian to become cold-water endurance champion in what copy-starved reporters branded the defining “Cold War.” As writer Hawthorn recalls, it “got plenty of ballyhoo” and clinched Kovish’s place as a B.C. legend.

Granstrom, meanwhile, was an inspirational figure from the moment she first took the polar plunge in 1928 at age 16. Declared legally blind as a child, the Fernie native was a cleaner and cook for miners before training as a nurse during the war.

Later working as a waitress, she never missed a swim and by the 1990s was given the honour of taking to the surf in advance of the liquored-up mobs stamping their feet in anticipation behind her. The “Queen of the Polar Bears” took her final dip — her 77th consecutive outing — in 2004 at age 92. She died four months later.

Article content

As for Peter, he died in harness — so to speak — in 1971. At the age of 69 — and after 18,000 daily aquatic sessions — he expired from a suspected heart attack while swimming off Waikiki Beach in Hawaii.

A beachside plaque in Vancouver commemorates his legacy, and in 2017 the city named Pantages Lane in the West End in his honour.

Following Peter’s death, his son Basil took over running the New Year’s Day swim in concert with the city parks board. It was around this time, as well, that the donning of outlandish outfits really took root.

Mr. Dressup had nothing on this mob. Over the years English Bay has seen Mad Hatters, Wonder Women, The Flash, as well as a rogues’ gallery of scuba divers, pirates, clowns, vikings, sharks, brides and tanked-up gents in tuxedoes.

The Polar Bear Swim set a record during its 100th anniversary in 2020 with 6,000 registered swimmers — smashing the previous mark set in 2014 of 2,550. It went “virtual” in 2021 but stormed back this year.

Of all its characters, the most unpredictable is the sea itself. With typical temperatures ranging from 2 to 9 degrees Celsius, the waters of English Bay can throw up plenty of surprises. And that’s if you can reach the shore without freezing — in 1963 parks board staff had to plow a trail through two feet (0.6 metres) of snow.

To deal with numbing conditions, Lisa recommends her granddad’s hack — lathering on some olive oil — though she cautions against lathering up on pre-dive booze.

Post-plunge? That’s a different story. The Peter Pan Café is long gone but as Lisa has pointed out: “There’s nothing wrong with a little refreshing elixir afterward.”

Article content