In the small, sundial-shaped park at the corner of Bank and West Main in Mystic, a bronze statue of the late distance-running legend John Kelley was wearing a Santa hat. At his side, a sculpture of his beloved dog Brutus was festooned with reindeer antlers.

But, as it approached noon on Friday, there was no question St. Nick was long gone and this was New Year's Day. As ritual dictates, several dozen Kelley fans, fitness enthusiasts and sundry thrill-seekers — all wanting a special way to usher in 2016 — were gathered together, many in Mardi Gras-esque costumes or the sort of headgear associated with Fred Flintstone, Barney Rubble and the Loyal Order of Water Buffaloes.

The occasion? The annual Jan. 1 ritual wherein folks leisurely jog from Mystic to Esker Point Beach at Groton Long Point — and then dive into the boreal waters of Esker Bay on Long Island Sound.

The ritual started in 1969 when three Kelley disciples, Amby Burfoot, Lee Burbank and Marty Valentine, did an impromptu New Year's morning plunge at Esker Point. Within a few years, several others started showing up and, soon after, the idea of tacking a leisurely jog onto the experience evolved.

By now, there are plenty of folks from across the region who can't imagine starting the year any other way.

"I'm actually not sure if I'm swimming today," said Tom Richards of Mystic, who's participated in the unnamed, unofficial event for years. "As I get older, I wait and see how I feel once I get to the beach." He added that, a few years back when he did get in the water, he lost his eyeglasses in the surf. A year later, he found a $20 bill — and applied it to a set of glasses. "I can't imagine not doing this. It's like starting the year with a clear head and a fresh start."

Several runners, spanning three generations, were wearing identical blue "Will Run for Beer" T-shirts in honor of Bill Craig, a regular New Year's participant who died of cancer last year at age 55. "He would really have enjoyed the whole idea," said his sister-in-law, Lisa Smith. "He ran last year and didn't even know he was sick."

Two of Kelley's oldest friends, veteran competitive runners Way Hedding and Jim Roy, were eager to get going — despite the fact they'd competed in a midnight 4-mile run in Manhattan's Central Park just a few hours before.

"It was a lot of fun — fireworks, rap music, rock music," Hedding said. "But we're ready to go." He proffered a bottle of peppermint schnapps. "We're armed with winter-warmer."

At the wavering sound of a bugle call, the entire group set off at a casual pace — the idea of the whole celebration is camaraderie rather than victory or setting personal-best times — and headed up Route 215.

At Esker Point Beach, pals, loved ones and relatives awaited the throng to cheer, provide tactical support in the context of warm and dry clothing, or maybe just to chortle at how much a soaking-wet human can shiver on a New England winter morning.

Friends and neighbors Alison Murphy and Dick Schmitz were looking for their respective daughters, Julia Clok and Joelle Schmitz, to run over the hill and splash into the water. But they were far from idle.

"We've set up a towel-heating system in the car. That's probably the best way we can help out," Murphy said.

After about 43 minutes, the runners indeed topped a rise in the road and, with the beach in sight, broke into a collective sprint. And while a few actually stood, waist-deep in the bay, posing for pictures or with their arms around one another in triumph, most hopped back onto the sand with alacrity.

"It's a little chilly, but it's been worse," said Noank's Mike Doyle, a frequent participant who started such activities years ago with the Penguin Plunge in Rhode Island. "But it's not too cold today, and there's very little wind, which is usually the killer."

His daughter, Clare Doyle, a student at Georgia Tech, was also not particularly bothered, given the relative balm of the day.

"I love doing this," she said. "I look forward to it. Not so much him, though." She pointed at her clearly cold boyfriend, a Virginia native named Ted Bailey, explaining, "I guilted him into this. I told him he needed the perfect New England experience."

When asked his opinion, Bailey shook his head, wrapped a towel around his shoulders, and said, "It's absolutely crazy." He smiled. "But, yeah, I'd do it again."

r.koster@theday.com