One Night at This Sauna and Ice-Bath Club Gave Me a Sober Hangover
At Othership, after the sweating and shivering and primal screaming comes some questionable group therapy. Should I go back?
Expecting a nice, quiet hour at the sauna with around 50 other people, I was thrown off by the deep untz-untz bass that filled the neon, LED-light-filled space a few minutes into my “Up” session. Our two guides, in sync, used their towels in choreographed moves to swirl the hot air around, stopping to throw an essential-oil-infused snowball onto the hot stones with each beat drop. As one nameless EDM song ended and another one started, we were then prompted to move our arms over our head, breathing to the beat, before we were handed a body gua sha to also move to the beat.
After about 40 minutes of this, we moved into the ice-bath room, where we were instructed to sit in the 32-degree water for two whole minutes. We were guided into the baths at once, and after feeling an immediate prickly yet numbing sensation on my legs, I stepped out, saying, “That was one of the worst things I’ve ever done” perhaps a little too loudly.
Welcome to Othership: an “immersive” sauna and ice-bath experience first opened in Toronto by CEO Robbie Bent and a group of friends in his garage, all of whom are now co-founders of the company. Othership opened its first U.S. location in Flatiron July 17; another will open its doors in Williamsburg later this year. The “studio” offers a few different classes and experiences: guided “Down,” “Up,” and “All Around” classes designed to guide students through the sauna and ice baths; “Socials,” a sauna party marketed as an alternative to clubbing; and “Free Flows,” independent sauna and ice-bath time that is generally quieter. All of these, according to its website, are built to help “navigate and regulate your emotions, in a world that can’t be regulated.” What is regulated is how expensive it is to access the space: A single 75-minute class is $65, and founding packages are (slightly) discounted at $244 for a five-pack and $444 for a ten-pack.
All classes begin in the “tea room,” a multitiered couch area that surrounds a fireplace where you’re welcome to sip tea and water and find your bearings before entering the sauna. After an overview of what to expect for the next 75 minutes, the guides shepherd the students into the saunas in groups before class begins.
Perplexed by the experience — and convinced it might be a cult — I signed up for one of Othership’s signature guided classes and brought a friend along. This time, the first half of class was broken up into four different sections. The first began with the instructor, Harry Taylor, playing a wooden flute that was “made out of the cedar you sit on, that covers these walls,” he softly explained between notes; the second was soundtracked by chimes, which were powered by more synchronized towel-dancing. For the third section, we descended into total darkness and silence, prompted by heavy breathing and a gong.
Then the instructor took out his guitar, which had been sitting in the sauna with us the entire time. (I couldn’t stop thinking about how hot the guitar must be — I couldn’t even touch the glasses I was wearing.) He introduced the next segment as his personal favorite, saying that he was about to play his and his wife’s favorite song: Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah.” (She’s also an instructor at Othership.) He did not just play this song, but he invited, highly encouraged, others to sing along with the chorus. Both extremely uncomfortable, my friend and I abstained — a surprisingly large percentage of the room went along with it, though. After the ice-plunge time (I again did not make it longer than a few seconds), we were brought back into the sauna for another 15 or so minutes for more guided breathwork soundtracked by the guide’s favorite classical song: “Clair de Lune.”
Then Taylor turned on the lights and asked everyone to share their experiences and what they thought of the class. Some opened up about moments happening in their personal lives; some, already fans of the studio, gushed about how much Othership has changed them already and how Othership’s meditation app (plans start at $17.99 per month or $130 per year) helped them through a recent breakup; and one new-that-night attendee explained how transformed she felt and that she really was “blasted into another dimension.” “Welcome aboard the ’ship,” Taylor replied.
The instructor then explained that we’ll be receiving another pass to come back, as well as three passes for friends and people we know that “are cool and have a good vibe” to bring to the space. Isn’t this how cults happen?
I signed up for another class to show yet another friend.
This third class was similarly structured, but this time it was themed around the elements and had (thankfully) no instruments or group singing. Most of the elements were paired with themed essential-oil-infused snowballs, and the class was at times relaxing, heavily relying on more traditional meditation visualization practices. (There was, however, one new section — fire — where we were guided through a group primal scream.)
This class also ended with what was essentially group therapy. While I was fascinated by the amount of people opening up, I couldn’t help but question how curiously these shared experiences felt like regurgitations of what Othership was already trying to feed us, and it at times felt a little disingenuous and forced. I felt like I was in a room full of people cosplaying a very traditional practice in a very manufactured space.
“When I hear an authentic share, it can change my whole day for the better,” founder Robbie Bent wrote in a promotional email to clients who, like me, attended preview sessions before the space officially opened to the public. “It’s the anti social media, witnessing real people share about their real day to day lives.” In another email, he wrote, “The thing that makes Othership different and special and fucking fantastic isn’t the saunas or ice baths or performances. It’s the community that gathers inside. The human beings who we sit beside, laugh, and share transformation.”
At one point, I overheard two people talking about how the experience felt similar to traditional Scandinavian practice and were fascinated by how effective it was. Othership is aware of this. The values section of its website says they pay “homage to the sacred and cultural practices of history and present, from sauna and sweat lodge to hammam and temazcal. We share these teachings with reverence to and for all those who come before us and those who have yet to come.”
About 30 minutes past my normal bedtime on a Wednesday, I returned to the bright, crowded sauna for a fourth time. This time, I came alone to experience one of its highly promoted “Social” sessions. A few minutes into the class, which is essentially two hours of free time to move between the sauna and ice baths as you please, guides came into the room dancing with towels while another played a drum to the beat of the music. At one point, one man got up in the front of the room and attempted to do a handstand before being told he “can’t do that” by one of the employees. He promptly stopped and instead stood up on the first tier of the sauna and started dancing to the music while his friends hyped him up. That, I guess, was allowed.
After sitting in the sauna for a good 30-plus minutes, I had had enough people-watching. I needed a reprieve and made my way toward the ice baths. As I stood at the edge of the 32-degree tub, Caleb Spaulding, one of Othership’s guides, offered to help walk me through the cold plunge, revealing that the benefits don’t really kick in until you’re in the bath for at least 3- seconds. After he taught me the proper breathing techniques (in through the nose, out through the mouth like you’re breathing out a straw), I stepped in until he notified me that it had been 30 seconds, at which point, out of instinct, I stepped out. Now, I wouldn’t say I felt transformed, but I did feel energized and felt a similar high I get after running. I quickly got cold, though, and made my way back to the sauna.
There, I started talking to a woman next to me who had learned about Othership through another wellness space she’s a part of, and we both made similar jokes about the hydrogen-infused water that was being handed out (is that like saying water-water? Doesn’t water already have hydrogen in it?). She liked the experience and was so intrigued by the towel-dancing that she went up to one guide and asked if she could show her how to wave one around herself (it was apparently much harder than it looked).
While I had a better time at the Social than the previous guided classes, I didn’t feel especially great. I was tired (I didn’t get home until well after 1 a.m.) and felt dehydrated — a sober hangover. Worse, though, I was ridden with the slight regret that I didn’t stay in the ice bath longer than 30 seconds. Do I have it in me to stay longer? Do I actually like this place now?
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