This is where I start and end most all of my swims. The roots down to the waters edge hold the muddy bank together and I trust them every time to support my clumsy clamber in and out of the bay. Two old frayed ropes are tied to the roots providing some assistance getting in and out—I mostly rely on them getting in to assure a slow entry. Without them there the mud is so slick a slow entry is nearly impossible.
Today’s swim began at 9:20am, an enormous departure from my habit of late afternoon swims. This marked my first morning in the cool waters. The sun was still coming up over the trees when I slowly let the cold water sink into my skin. There was no warm layer, no warm currents, no steady sunlight beating down to take the chill off. But somehow it was okay. I found my eyes wandering up to notice the tall fir and cedar trees lining the bay. It’s funny what you notice when you change your routine, shake up your habits in some new way.
I’ve always said I hate the cold, hate getting chilled. Today I realized there is a difference. I felt the cold, but no chill—well, at least the chill waited to come after my swim. But while in the water I tried embracing the feel and carving my way forward, focusing on the clearness of the water. Before I knew it I felt fine. And the coolness felt okay, even good. I felt alive. Warm water sometimes makes me lose focus. The coldness kept my mind sharp.
The salt water held some magic today that was different. First off, it was morning and the bay was still and empty and the water was it’s normal healthy green color. The surface was carpeted with little bits of algae, but otherwise was clear.
Swimming at the start of my day felt like a brand new adventure, and I guess I needed that. Never before had I braved the morning for a swim. I needed to be stretched, and challenged physically. The water didn’t disappoint. I guessed it would be colder than a late afternoon swim—it most certainly was.
I had already been atop these waters In a rowboat less than an hour earlier to check our crab pot outside the bay, and restock the bait in anticipation of my niece’s visit, hoping to delight her with success in her first time crabbing.
With the sun scattering across the bay floor, held in my aquatic trance, my body on autopilot freestyle I calculated that I had enough time to leave the bay, and take the long morning swim I hoped for.
Once outside the spit, I headed towards Fletcher’s Landing but knew where I would end up.
My crab pot was soaking just south of the landing.
My morning adventure was suddenly about to get more exciting.
I swam parallel the beach, past the two houses to the north of the landing, and setting my sights on the red and white buoy, made a beeline with steady strokes pulling me onward towards my goal.
As I approached our crab buoy it occurred to me that pulling up a crab pot from the water with nothing but a swim buoy for flotation might not work so well.
I tried it anyway.
And the pot rose up from the deep.
Inside? Two good sized crabs. One night prior Anders and I caught our first Dungeness crab —7 inches!—and these two looked quite large as well.
Curiosity overtook me and I unhooked my swim buoy so I could hold it in one hand as I bobbed up and down in the water, titling the pot sideways to see if the crabs were males, my waterlogged mind considering four things:
1. Swimming with a crab pot 200 yards to shore for the sake of two maybe legal size crabs was perhaps pushing my luck, and not a fun idea.
2. Arriving to shore with the pot, even if I did succeed was useless as I had no way to carry all of this home in a timely fashion.
3. I was likely to get dragged from the water that I do so love if I messed around much longer, as I must have appeared a bit batty to any onlookers as I wrestled the crab pot without the benefit of a boat and may startle some poor person thinking I was drowning.
4. I didn’t have my crab license or drivers license on me.
So, I took one more look below the water, trying to assess the sex of my two crabs, and in the process of tilting the pot, one got away.
As I let the pot float down into the depths, I was careful to stay clear of the line. I then strapped my swim buoy back on and headed home.
Tonight as I rinsed the two crabs that my niece and I caught this evening —by boat—preparing them for a meal tomorrow, I thought about crab shells. And trees.
Crabs grow these tremendously thick shells, with barnacles and such, but as they grow they have to climb out of them and grow new outer shells to fit their bigger bodies. If they didn’t shed their shells and literally climb out of themselves they wouldn’t grow. They couldn’t survive.
Today I climbed out of my shell. And maybe grew a little. I want to survive.
And the evergreen trees. I admired them on my swim today, even as they blocked the rising sun from warming the waters around me. For the trees give life to the waters I swim in. They keep growing skyward, all the while they stay rooted, stretching their limbs outward, while possums and raccoons scamper around them and owls perch in their branches and insects burrow in their bark and humans hang hammocks in them and forget they are living.
I want to be like a crab and a tree. Rooted, and generous and always reaching for the sky like a cedar or fir. Well protected and resourceful like a crab, but willing to shed my shell so I can keep growing.
And tolerant of the cold and wet, even in winter.
As I made my way back to the muddy bank today I looked down and saw a small maple leaf resting on the clam bed below. Fall is coming.
Mary Swims 