Today I swam through time.
The high tide was hours away when I finally committed to taking the plunge, and as such my entry point was Fletcher Landing as starting in the bay would have forced a very short swim with no chance of a watery exit out of the bay. Muddy clam flats are exposed at low tide, and I knew I needed to go far today. I just knew.
Josh and Anders dropped me off just before 5pm at the beach. I didn’t exit the choppy waters until 6:51pm, according to a fellow beach goers’ phone. My look on Google Earth revealed I swam about 2.25 miles.
I am just this side of aching now after nearly two hours swimming through my past, present and future all at once.
The gifts today were many, including clear water with no jellyfish, no algae, no boaters of any kind, no interruptions—and no escape from my thoughts and swirling emotions.
The waves and wind carried me south, and combined with my caffeinated self chugging along at a good pace made the waters tolerable. Though there wasn’t a warm top layer like I find inside the bay where it’s calm, the overall effect was a pleasant cool warm temperature.
With the clear water around me I found myself studying the sea floor, watching sun shadows dance across barnacled rocks and white shells and wisps of feathery pure white seaweed float along the bottom, like little clouds fallen from the sky.
I was pleased to be greeted by a young crab with my first dive under, her two pincers raised to warn me and cheer me on, as my body eased into the rhythm of swimming again. Soon I spotted a starfish, and then a large crab. Both creatures needed a good look, so I back peddled to give them a closer look.
I have come to expect at least one surprise on these swims—some unexpected delight. I have yet to be disappointed. Today’s gift was a flock of large white seagulls sunning themselves on the beach. In hindsight perhaps I should have heeded their warning and considered a shorter swim, as the wind and waves ultimately pushed me to my physical limit.
In the moment I saw them, energy and a goal were on my mind, and as I quietly swam by them on the beach they all took flight at once, swirling up into the cloudless sky. I turned on my back and watched them sail in every direction, wings wide and free.
My goal was to reach the north end of Crystal Springs. My turnaround spot was set to be just offshore from one of my dad’s oldest friends, Sandy. When I was a kid we spent hours down here at his house, at family parties, on the beach, swimming and even waterskiing.
As I neared the spot, just offshore where long ago we beached the boat onto the sandy shore and waded in from the boat sometimes for surprise visits, I suddenly gasped and turned west to clutch my swim buoy—-and wept. I couldn’t stop.
All of the loss and change and uncertainty of the past few years and the reality of now hit me like a tidal wave. I wept for what was that is no more, I wept out of emotional exhaustion with the present and I wept in wonder with what may come. I floated free and all alone on my salty tears that tell so much that I will never be able to explain in words.
And the water held me.
And I continued to rock.
And then I started swimming again, a little farther south, away from my childhood memories and towards the next chapter of my life, just after I married Josh. As I headed south towards the beach house we rented the first year we were married, I imagined myself literally swimming through time. I paused to consider the distance to get there, and realized that if I swam that far south I didn’t think I’d have the strength to swim all the way back to my starting place.
So I turned around, into the wind and incoming tide and relentless waves and swam towards my present. I was swimming home. To the home I have built with Josh and our sons and our dog and three cats.
I needed to swim home. The last mile back was achingly slow. I maneuvered around large submerged boulders, and sunken half-submerged trees, and batted floating leaves and twigs out of my path. Twice I stoped to just sit in the shallows and regroup. With every stroke I tried to distract myself from the fatigue by keeping my focus on what presented before my eyes. I noticed the colorful rocks, the green and brown seaweed lightly battering me as the waves kept sloshing into me, forcing salt water into my mouth and nose, swelling my tongue. I felt the burn of salt in my throat and kept going.
I started considering getting out early. But every time I arrived at a possible exit point, I found myself driven to continue on. There was nothing to prove, no one with me to worry about. I just felt this intense need to make it all the way back—swimming. At some point it occurred to me that swimming was probably easier than walking—and if got our early, the spell would be broken. My experience diluted. I’d have to make small talk with whomever’s property I’d have to trespass politely to get to the road for the walk home.
This swim, like all of the others, is all mine. I have so much work to do. And I have to do it alone.
The other day my friend, Steve, said something about my swims that has stayed with me and guided me and I am so grateful for his wisdom.
I shared with him that I’ve been approached by some people wanting to swim with me. I explained that I am torn. There is something to protect.
He said, “Don’t dilute your experience. Swimming is your meditation. You need to keep it as such.”
He is right. My swims are sacred. I am exposed and tossed forward and backward in time.
These are journeys I have to take alone.
In the last moments just as I was exiting the water, a shining fish leapt high in the air.
I made it home.
Mary Swims 