It was like being in a sandstorm. It was cold. The top of my head was just coated with ice.

Ice burns, and it is hard to the warm-skinned to distinguish one
sensation, fire, from the other, frost.

By coming down elbow first, I'd made a large enough crack in the ice to sink through.
The water was so cold that it stopped time.

I wouldn't say it's cold, but every year Winnipeg's athlete of the year is an ice fisherman.

He casteth forth his ice like morsels: who can stand before his cold? / He sendeth out his word, and melteth them: he causeth his wind to blow, and the waters flow.

A flea on the top of a bald head.