Onboard Obsession: Hot-Cold Therapy on an Arctic Voyage to the North Pole
Gilles Trillard/Ponant
Onboard Obsession is a new series that explores the can't-miss highlights of the best-loved cruises—from the shore excursions to book to the spa treatments too relaxing to pass up.
Le Commandant Charcot is the only passenger ship that can sail to the top of the world. So extreme was our impossibly ice-locked destination, there’d be no stopping until we had made it to 90 degrees north: the geographic North Pole.
As expedition cruises go, the 16-day polar odyssey with Ponant promised to be the ultimate bucket-list trip—until recently, the northernmost point of the globe was only accessible by the world’s most accomplished explorers. Now, aboard the Charcot, the world’s only ultra-luxe icebreaker, up to 245 passengers can experience the unlivable Arctic environ in comfort and style.
Once we finally reached our destination, we’d get the chance to hike, kayak, and zip around the Arctic Circle in Zodiac inflatable boats. But it was the polar plunge that thrilled me to my core. When it came to bragging rights, surely this was the ultimate immersion? Leaping into the frigid Arctic waters screamed madness. Doing it at 90 degrees north—a place few will ever see or even step foot on—made it all the more surreal. If the climate scientists aboard our vessel were correct, the North Pole would be ice-free in summer in a decade. I didn’t hesitate. One paid ECG-test later, in the ship’s very efficient medical center, and I was ready to brave it all.
On board the ship I found a surprise training ground. As our ship hit the ice, jimmying pathways with astonishing ease, I took myself to Charcot’s wellness spa on deck nine, the midnight sun blurring wakefulness and sleep. The space—including a spa, sauna, treatment rooms, and wave pool—was designed by celebrated French architect Jean-Michel Wilmotte. Organic curves, pale wood, and natural textiles called to mind whale bones and exploration.
In the onboard sauna, I sweltered in the blistering heat, mesmerized by ice sheets lit gold and rippled like sand dunes. We could have been plowing the Sahara desert, not multi-year ice up to 15 feet deep. Ten minutes in there, and I’d emerge hot, pink, and sweaty, braced for the snow room. It was tiny; an icebox piled high with snow and a frosty 14 degrees Fahrenheit. Snowflakes twirled in the air, born on the fine mist pumped continuously into the space. I scooped up handfuls of the wet stuff, rubbing it on my bare arms and legs; a Nordic hot-cold therapy repeated three times, said to increase metabolism and reduce muscle inflammation.
It didn’t take long for the cold to set in or the endorphins to kick in. Every cell in my body felt alive, but so did my mind. Sharp, as if the synapses were firing in fresh ways. What was a polar plunge to this invigorating daily routine?
Floor-to-ceiling glass windows meant the Arctic, in all its stupendous beauty, was never far from view while in the spa. A hydrating Sothys facial in one of the three treatment rooms brought seabirds careening above fractured seas. In the adjacent Wintergarden lounge, I floated in the small wave pool, the saltwater pumped in from the sea and temperate thanks to the ship’s energy-conserving heating system. Some passengers swam laps. I was content to float like flotsam on the swell. Above me, through the glass skylight, I watched snow drifts and woolen clouds blanket the sky.
The Wintergarden was a zen spot post-swim, warm by virtue of the pool and elegant in design. White loungers fronted jigsaw seas. The Detox Bar whipped up healthy smoothies and fresh juices. Mornings here were reserved for slow contemplation, watching marble ice skittle down alleyway seas or laser-white horizons appear in the clouds.
Over coffee and croissants, I watched the team from Le Commandant Charcot set up a white dome tent next to the only sea in miles of ice. A carpeted runway led to the inky waters. I had goosebumps, but it had nothing to do with the cold.
Kitted out in just my swimsuit, bathrobe, and polar jacket, snow crunching underfoot, I walked toward our exclusive plunge pool on top of the world. The night before, Captain Marchesseau had wedged our ship into the ice at 90 degrees north, popping a magnum of Billecart-Salmon Champagne to celebrate. Two giant Azipods at the vessel’s rear had churned nonstop ever since. The 20-foot-wide stainless steel propellers chewed the ice like a slushie machine, exposing the hidden Arctic Ocean beneath.
Four days of hot-cold therapy, augmented with a Wim Hof breath work exercise from the app on my phone, had done the trick. Diving headfirst into the ice-studded sea, I felt no bone-crushing coldness. My brain didn't scream at me to get out. Underwater, as if in a dream, my eyes briefly fluttered open to see those depthless black waters suddenly bright blue, lit by our shoreline of thick sea ice.
Originally Appeared on Condé Nast Traveler
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