Ahhh, the Outdoor Shower - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

Ahhh, the Outdoor Shower - Dr. Ed Iannuccilli

Never one for making myself uncomfortable by immersing myself in anything cold, I much preferred a warm shower, a warm pool, and a warm ocean. When people brag about how they dive into ice-cold waters because “It’s good for you.” --- Nope. “It’s healthy.”  --- Nope. “It makes you feel young.”  --- Nope. “I’m doing it for a cause.”  --- Well, I’ll sponsor you, but I’m not jumping.

I was never quick to dive into the ocean. The icy water hurt my ankles, so I stopped, rose on tiptoes to stem the cold from rising to my crotch, wet my hands, then my arms and shoulders and waited for the next wave. Then, with a deep breath and a puff, I dove, rose quickly and gasped. “There, I did it!”

But a cold shower after a day at the beach was different, unique, a feel-good experience and one that I welcomed on that rare occasion.

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We rented a cottage across the street from the beach at the Narragansett shore for many summers. The house was a white, cinder-block bungalow squatting in a grassy lot adjacent to its twin. We woke to the predictable brilliant sun, put on our bathing suits, had breakfast and strolled barefoot with towels draped around our necks, across the street to the beach.

After those extended days, we arrived home hot, tired, sunburned, crusted with ocean salt and a thin layer of gristled sweat, I welcomed the shower. My tee shirt scratched my sensitive skin as I wrestled it over my head. I raced to get under that outdoor shower, enclosed and jutting like an appendage from the rear of the cottage.

I stepped in, removed my bathing trunks and turned the crank. Naked and protected under the blue sky and fleecy clouds, I jumped back, startled by the initial rush of fresh, clean, frigid water. And then I eased into it, eventually letting it drive into my hair and spill over my body. I was invigorated.

The slats of the wooden retreat were not perfectly joined, so I had only partial privacy, but the secluded area behind the cottage and adjacent to a field of Rose of Sharon made it comfortable and safe. I was refreshed and connected with nature because, I suppose, of a naked sense that we were getting away with something by hiding in the shower.

Tucked on one of the wood cross beams was the ultimate soap, Ivory, ninety-nine and forty-four one hundred percent pure. It lathered easily and attacked the salt and sand, its smell unique. Cold rinse. Done. I toweled dry. On another wooden shelf was a canister of Johnson’s Baby Powder which I spread liberally. In the early evening, when I had donned my white sweatshirt which smelled of . . . you guessed it . . . Ivory Snow, I was clean and fragrant.

Our rudimentary shower provided a rejuvenating experience, combining nature with Ivory Soap, Johnson’s Powder, and an acceptance of ice-cold water, a rare experience.