“One of the symptoms that he experienced was rigidity, the feeling of being frozen,” McCastle says into the camera of his phone, pausing every few words like he’s out of breath. The larger goal is to raise funds for the Brian Grant Foundation, which works on behalf of people with Parkinson’s disease-people like McCastle’s father, Raymond, who died from complications of the illness in 2014. In a halting voice, he explains that he’s trying to break the record for the longest immersion in ice, which currently stands at two hours and 34 minutes. At 1:17 P.M., he starts streaming on Instagram Live. He has been building toward this attempt for eight years. McCastle works as a personal trainer and mental-strength coach for Paralympians, elite rugby players, and adventurer Colin O’Brady. Throw some shades on me-Weekend at Bernie’s.” Just a few buddies trained in CPR and a piece of paper with emergency instructions that McCastle wrote for his friends, with details like: “Core temp 82.4 F-Severe heart rhythm disturbances are likely and breathing may stop at any time. No spectators, no paramedics, no TV cameras. It’s hard to imagine a more low-key, DIY setup for an attempt at a potentially lethal world record. A recording of a crackling fire plays over a speaker. McCastle stands six foot two and weighs 225 pounds 60 bags aren’t quite enough to reach his shoulders, so the men bring in buckets of snow from outside to finish the job. His breathing slows and deepens when the ice reaches his arms, which are crossed on his chest over a heart-rate strap.
Two fit guys with shaved heads are tearing open bags of ice and emptying them inside the frame. His seat is surrounded by a frame of PVC pipes, with four walls made of clear plastic wrap. Michael McCastle, 34, sits in a wooden chair in the corner where the kitchen meets the living room. In a small house on the edge of town, a burly tattooed man in his underwear is getting ready to be buried in ice.
A half-hour seaplane hop from the Bering Sea, a flat expanse of snow and scattered weather-beaten buildings sits below a blue-gray sky. Bethel, Alaska, in January is a bleak and frigid place.
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