Guest Post From: Geoff Fury, @GeoFFuryBear

Word – 500 – Meditation – Wim Hof –  Ice Dive 2017 – Beach – Dive – Golden – Key

The Word of a God

Fury said, ‘What’s Logocentrifugal?’
Logocentrifugal said, ‘Logocentric + centrifugal = spinning out the truth that it all starts with the word.’
‘Ah’, Fury said. ‘Like the toltec? KJV bible? Sanskrit?’
‘Aye, like essentially every sacred work. But, people don’t like the responsibility of being a god, so they deny and point fingers.’
Fury said, ‘Mm. God of own realm, and reality. I diggit.’

This was a conversation, between me – @Geoffurybear – and Logocentrifugal – @logocentrifugal. We’d chopped it up before, on threads and tweets, and shared similar ideologies. Such as the one described above:

Your word is your bond.

And when you say you’re gonna do something you do it. Period. No trying, just doing. No wishy washy lame ass shit. Just action.


This quest post is to celebrate my 500 followers on Twitter, and I said if I’d breach the barrier I’d tell the story of how I nearly died of Hypothermia. In 2017. In the Ocean, near The Hague. Where the Dutch do their Annual Ice Dive.

Since then I’ve done it two more times. 2018 and 2019. But that year was loco, and it was all caused by my hubris and confidence in my ability to withstand cold, and meditate like an adapt, and have full control over my breathing and nervous system.

Hint: This is far from true. Right now, at least.


I have been meditating regularly since 2013, on and off, and then consistently again, and abruptly stopping, and then picking it up again. I read the Joe Pike series of Robert Crais. Joe Pike was a vegetarian Zen badass Force Recon Marine who did yoga and meditation. I decided to start these hobbies, too.

So come 2017, I’d become a little more adapt at breathing and yoga and meditation. Which in my humblest opinion, and with my limited knowledge on the subject: all three are the same.

Yoga = Meditation = Breathing.

It’s about breathing. And specifically, breath control.

Control your breathe, control your mind.
Control your mind, control your body.
Control you body, control your life.

Wim Hof Ice Method

Since I was all about that control, and overcoming your weaknesses, the Ice Man came my way of course. I’d hear about him on the news, in books, podcasts. You name it. The fact that I’m Dutch just facilitated my exposure to him.

Hubris that I sometimes I have, I thought this method was easy, and I didn’t need to buy a course, or speak to the man himself, and I just googled some breakdowns of the overall technique. Easy enough.

Google it. There is plenty of resources. And it’s fun.

I upgraded to ice showers, and there I achieved a personal best of staying under for more than ten minutes. Twelve or eleven I believe.

Annual New Year’s Ice Dive 2017

The morning of I packed my bag. Towels, socks, and what not. I also dressed for the occasion.

This is where it gets funny. I dressed up in shorts and a wifebeater. The wifebeater had horizontal stripes on it, kinda like a sailor, which was apt since I was going to sea. To this day, I can still remember the outfit. For obvious reasons of course.

And mind you: It was the dead of winter. January 1st. In the Netherlands. And the temperature was around zero degrees Celsius, and would dip below subzero, too. Good times.

At first it was okay, as I left the door. I’m pretty resilient in general, and as told, I’m quite good against the cold. No red flags. Yet.

I got to central station, met up with my cousin, and he was constantly saying stuff like, You alright? You good man? You don’t look too well.

Thing is the mind decides all. The internal monologue in your head. The WORD in your inner realm, where you are your own God. Truth spun out.

My mind was top notch, for now. But the body wasn’t. I’d gone into the wim hof mode. Using some kind of breathing mix mash of all the things I knew. Meditating. Pranayama – which is just alternating nostril breathing – this is something I do to this day, as it kept my alive during my Budapest trip. Five day straight hardcore partying with countless liquor. Topping it off with a banger in Prague. Over those five to six days I had slept a total of around fifteen hours. Averaging three hours a day.

When you’re me, and do some dumb ass shit, you HAVE to come up with outside of the box contrarian untested instantly working high level badass stuff.

Like Instant Meditation.

I’ve long since gotten more adapt at that, but still not where I want to be. And in 2017, I was not at the right level, as the temperature kept dipping and the frosty slashes of icy wind cut into my sleeveless arms, and legs.

I was shivering like hell. And I wasn’t even at the beach yet. Fun.

The Beach

We met up with two of my best friends and one brought his girlfriend. She brought a bottle of vodka. Which is not very smart if it’s already cold and you’re freezing to death, but liquor in your system warms you temporarily.

Another dumb thing. We stripped down. To our swimshorts and such. You do NOT do this. There is a specific time when everyone storms off, into the ocean, and it is absolutely stunning to behold. Like an ancient battlefield. Battalions going in full gallop, knowing they are going to collide.

We had time to kill, and the announcer broadcasted some lame ass general warmup to do. We warmed up with our own thang. We did air squats, and pushups, and my friend challenged me to a pushup contest, and I won. Of course. In my circle there is no one better than me at calisthenics. No one.

By this time I was seeing blurry, and was shaking more heavily.
I was getting warmer and I lost feeling in some of my toes. If not all.

Some toes got blue. And I seriously thought fuck it I lost em.

SEAL shit.

The blur is hard to describe. It’s like the one you see when you’ve run thirty kilometers straight. With no water and no food, on an empty stomach. In the summer, in the scorching sun.

Or when you shovel unlimited vodka, in your system, and you’re trying to stay alive during the night.

I can go in detail. But you get the point.

I was in full survival mode.

And you just know people are weak, when you’re in full out survival mode, and they’re saying shit that aint making it better:

– You dying bro?

– You look like shit?

– You blue.

Nothing uplifting. No hooa, no hooya. No SEAL comradery.

The Dive

Hora est. Latin for: It was time.

There was this stupid claxon signaling the go ahead sign. Dutch love claxons and honking shit and just straight up annoying Decibel Destroyers.

Like I said, The whole beach was like Normandy. Full of troopers ready to storm the sea. Reverse Normandy then. We didn’t storm the beach, but descended downwards, into the sea, from whence we all came according to JFK.

And each year it’s simply stunning. A sight to behold. A feast for the eyes.

People let out purely savage war cries. Atavistic, primal. Some dash. Some full out sprint. Others intertwine, and lock arms, and run together. Everyone is bare skinned, and women and men are no more, and it’s not about gender, it’s about the storming of the sea.

Everything blurs.

In the cold in the ice of the air in the sand we thread and you lose sight of the ones you came with and meet others and others fall and you pick them up and you scream and scream and scream and I pound my chest I think and there is just pure fury on the whole goddamn beach.

Then we hit water. Every year, the instant, the microsecond, my foot hits the freezing water, I lose all feeling in it. Gone. Like a clean cut of a katana.

We jumped around, and my friend made footage, with his GoPro. My cousin pussied out, and left the water early. And I just stayed near the edge, since I cant swim that well. No SEAL. I stayed in as long as I could and went back up the beach, to our stuff. My clothes. Shelter. Warmth.

Don’t get me wrong. I like crazy shit, and am the first, and perhaps the only one to admit that. But I’m not gonna straight up die, on some dumbass beach, in the Netherlands, with all my goals unachieved, all my women not swooped, my wife not found, and kids not embraced, and our farm not bought.

I was NOT gonna buy the farm.

Friend said, ‘You’re gonna die?’
For the umpteenth time.
I said, for the first and only time, ‘I’m not dying on any other beach than Normandy. In fact. I’m straight up not dying here. Whatsoever. Period.’

Golden Eternity

This is the final part on The Word. The Logos, in Greek. Your whole being, your inner universe, is founded on one thing, and one thing only. The WORD.

How you think and speak and decides your reality. YOU decide it. You speak things into reality. This isn’t Manifestation, of Law of Attraction, per se. But it is the truth I have spun out before you in my piece here today, and the truth I’ve lived for the last three years.

Your word is your thoughts.

Your thoughts can make, or break you. Can be positive, or negative. Can be ZEN, even. Nothing. Void. Empty. Clean and pure, and for ever and ever and ever alright and alright and alright.

A golden eternity, which is accessible to all, but only unlocked when you have the key.


Everyone has such a key. It is the WORD. Your word.

Your word is your key, to living your life, to its fullest.

And some might dread here: “I don’t have this ability, to verbalize positivity and badass stuff. I don’t have this key.”

To those I say:

A key is made.

Your key to unshackle you from your self-imposed restraints can be forged.
Your key to unlock the bars that keep you a slave can be forged.
Your key to open the Gates to Freedom and Wealth and Health and Relations. And Life. It exists. It is real.

And you can unlock your key with ease.
Right. Now.

Your key is your word.

My word is my key.
And it has been, for quite some time now. And on that first of January of 2017, in the cold and ice, wet and shivering, with blue toes, my word was my salvage and sanctuary.

My word is my key to my indomitable will. My will to ALWAYS survive.
That day I simple said one thing, and one thing only:


After that incident, I went into the same ocean multiple times.

Hit the pavement once, and went to the hospital. Chin dripping with blood. Seven stitches, five in the chin, two under the eye. Scars still show.

A loca chica stabbed me in the forearm.

Seen a second stabbing.

Shoveled unlimited vodka. Most times, three shots straight in a row.

Completed my second marathon.

And countless other seemingly impossible feats.

Or Touches with Death.

We all die, sure. So do I. So will I.

But I’m gonna do my damndest to ensure I survive for as long as I possible can. With all my strength and will. With my word.

I promise you that.

My word is my bond.

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