Water. Yesterday morning I watched a frolicking quartet of young river otters gorge themselves on fish at the entrance to the bay, from the dry perch of my small aluminum skiff. In the afternoon I had my foot brushed by a seal, at the tail end of a companion swim with my neighbor, Dave. The seal again ushered us up the bay, back to our starting place. His body appeared below me in the murky water like a yellow shadow, slowly moving by me.
And today I reveled in the solitude of an evening solo swim, outside the bay. The sun was going down fast and I knew I wanted the warmth and light that appeared as the day wore on, hoping to catch at least a few pockets of warmth.
Again I pushed through my thin wall of fatigue, reminded myself that the water would hold me, just as it always does. The water called. I had a window of time and the stillness of the day extended into the evening. No wind.
Today was different, however, beyond the lack of wind. It is different every time. No two swims ever feel the same. Yesterday during the seal encounter, the water felt soft like a cozy hug.
This evening the water felt hard, but looked fuzzy, murky with a late August bloom of algae.
I tried a new entry today. There was no warm top layer to soften the shock of cold. But my mind went to the story I watched yesterday about a group of Irish women —they bathe in the sea every day, year round.
As I cinched in my buoy belt, and stood surveying the waters, I thought of them. One commented that the swims were “liberating“.
I splashed my face, poured the cold water down my arms several times and took a breath in. I dove under, but this time I stayed under, pulling myself forward through the chilly liquid, liberating myself from life on land. I hugged the cold, welcomed the rush.
There is a magical thing that happens the moment I take that first plunge. Suddenly I feel so alone, so separate, chilled but also powerful and fearless. Free. Completely liberated from my life on land and all it demands and asks of me.
When I surfaced after my first dive, I headed south and let the waters guide me. I thought about how swimming is like a perfect dance, two bodies moving through space gracefully, guiding each other. Sharing space but never colliding.
There is always room for me in the water. She is my dance partner.
I smiled throughout my swim today. My gratitude for this gift of water and a body that can swim and the gift of time to take these swims. And all that this new adventure has taught me.
As I ended my swim, I had a moment of regret, of disappointment that I didn’t discover this astoundingly awesome calling earlier. And then I thought of the seals again.
I needed to build up a thick skin. The seals arrive right on time, here to these waters, wrapped in the perfect amount of blubber and skin, swimming gracefully to wherever they must go. They swim as far as they need to go. Every day.
My life brought me here right on time, to this water. This magic. I wasn’t ready before. How strange to think that I might never have stumbled into this watery adventure had it not been for the entire world turning inside out.
I used to swim laps at the pool. A half mile usually, maybe 3/4 of a mile if I was really motivated. Ironically, out here where there are no walls, no lifeguards, no sauna, no lanes to guide me on my path I swim 4 or 6 times as far. The lack of order, of limits, of people, is liberating. I think I understand those Irish women.
They, too, have thick skins. They, too, swim with the seals.
Mary Swims 