I'll learn to love my new drysuit, even if it doesn't kill me first

My new drysuit and I did not get off to a good start. It tried to strangle me.

After 26 years of wearing a wetsuit for my winter river adventures, I decided to take the plunge into the wonderful world of drysuits.

What’s the difference? You wear nothing under a wetsuit. If you end up in the river, a thin layer of frigid water seeps in between the wetsuit and your skin. Your body heat quickly warms it up. “Quickly” being a subjective term. Drysuits, on the other hand, are worn over insulating layers of clothing and theoretically don’t allow any water to seep in.

Before buying a drysuit, I dove into research mode. Not thoroughly enough apparently.

For weeks, I pored over online articles, watched countless hours of videos, and sought advice via Facebook forums on drysuits. Nothing prepared me for what I experienced when I tried mine on for the very first time.

It looked innocent enough. My ocean blue drysuit might be too classy to wear to Walmart but it could pass as casual attire for shotgun weddings and other informal gatherings. Slipping into the one-piece drysuit was a breeze. My Hobbit-sized feet slid easily into the attached booties and the loose-fitting legs and torso felt pretty comfy. Especially compared to my wetsuit, which I always had to squirm into.

Then I tried to get my head through the drysuit’s neoprene neck gasket.

I struggled to get the gasket past my face before it suffocated me. I paused a couple of times to tug at the neoprene and stretch it away from my nose and mouth so I could draw a breath. Then I’d struggle some more, trying to pull the gasket down to my neck − thinking all along this would be an embarrassing way to be found dead.

Finally, I got the gasket around my neck. I could breathe again. Barely.

Within minutes, the veins on my forehead throbbed for lack of blood circulation. I looked in a mirror and saw what reminded me of one of those rubber dolls that, when you squeeze the belly, the eyeballs pop out.

I decided then and there that my drysuit had a name — Jack the Gripper.

Hey, Google: 'My drysuit just tried to strangle me'

This can’t be right, I thought. So I took the drysuit off and squeezed my stomach till my skull popped back to its original size and shape. Then I went online to see what the actual hell was going on with this thing.

I Googled “my drysuit just tried to strangle me.” Within seconds, a list of videos and articles came up on my computer screen with advice on how to stretch drysuit neck gaskets.

Some suggested I leave it as is and “after about 10-15 times of wearing the drysuit” I’d get used to it. Yeah, maybe if I had a neck like a Barbie doll.

A few YouTube videos recommended stretching the gasket over a gallon jug for 12-24 hours before trying it on again.

Squeeze into drysuit stretches into week two

So I did. As a precaution, before trying to squeeze my head through the neck gasket, I got one of the McDonald’s straws we keep in a kitchen drawer and performed a tracheotomy on myself.

I was home alone at the time. It occurred to me maybe I should have told Annette beforehand, lest she come home to find all that blood, the McDonald’s straw and bandage wrappers all over the bathroom and wonder what I’d been up to.

The second time was not the charm. It was slightly easier to get my head through the gasket but it still had my neck in a death grip. I took off the drysuit, draped it over a chair, and pondered my next move. A week’s gone by and it’s still there. I lock the bedroom door at night just in case the drysuit tries to creep in and strangle me in my sleep.

Maybe I’ll try stretching the neck gasket around a five-gallon bucket and let it set for a week or so.

I’ll keep you posted. If Jack the Gripper doesn’t strangle me first.

This article originally appeared on Ashland Times Gazette: Jack the Gripper: Drysuit hugs the life out of him