There’s nothing slick about his appearance. ![]() Hof is Dutch, his accent full of rolling r’s and long vowels. He is 61 years old and scruffily bearded, with a growly, booming voice that’s easily heard at a distance. “Oooh, look at all those fears!” Wim Hof says, reading the sign in mock terror. You Only Survive Few Minutes.” And if that isn’t enough of a deterrent: “Dangerous Currents. For anyone unaware that it is ill-advised to jump in for a dip, a big red sign spells out the hazards: “No Swimming-Freezing Water. On the far side of the lagoon, a glacier called Vatnajökull hunkers like the beast that it is: a 3,100-square-mile ice cap that sprawls over southeast Iceland, dwarfing other European glaciers. The icebergs are dazzling white and pale gray and a light milky blue, and striped with volcanic ash the water is the color of dull metal. Slabs and hunks and blocks of ice the size of ships, houses, buses-they’re everywhere, crowded into the glacial lagoon. ![]() ![]() The air is cold but the water is colder, its surface gridlocked with icebergs.
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