You know you’ve crossed over into crazy when you wake up and seriously consider how to convert an N-95 mask into a snorkel so you can go swim in cold water. That or consider wading out into the smoke to collect whole clam shells during the morning low tide to make a bunch of these—yes, clam shell books. Finally made my first one.
I am so lucky to even have time to consider these projects. I know that.
And I still desperately miss my swims, clean air, the sun, my friends, singing to strangers at the market and at wine bars and, most of all, waving my sweet sons off to school. And seeing their smiling friends and parents and their incredible teachers.
It’s funny how quickly habits can change—life can change in an instant. Well, funny maybe isn’t the right word here, but you catch my drift.
One week ago I would wake up every morning and check the tides on my phone, even before the weather. Before I started open water swimming I’d check the weather first. Then I took up this crazy new adventure, that quickly became a habit, and my first task became checking for the high tide of the day. And calculating how to get everything done I needed to get done and fit in a swim. Get to my sanctuary.
I have spent almost my entire life—41 of my 47 years—on Bainbridge Island. And I never knew how much the tides fluctuate from day to day. I never realized that the tides shifted so drastically, that there were high highs and high lows and low highs and low lows.
And then our world seemed to explode in flames a few weeks ago, and last week the smoke arrived. So now I check the air quality on my weather app first, gaze out the window at the wall of brown grey skies, along with I’m guessing most everyone else along the West Coast. Again reminding myself that we here on this island, and our close neighbors, are only suffering under the smoke of fires far away. We are not on fire. Relatively speaking.
Last night I found myself searching the BI Aquatic Center website, scanning the very limited open swim lanes and various times, looking for an opening. Longing to swim. Ready to go inside, surrender to this new reality stacked on top of the other new reality. Swim inside, in a watery box. Float. Back and forth, follow the black line.
My heart sank just thinking about flip turns.
I have grown so accustomed to, been spoiled by access to the endless, limitless, liberating experience of open water swimming just outside my back door.
Here is what I found on the website: One person per lane, 45 minutes maximum, no access to locker rooms, masks required until pool side, no sauna, no spa, no banter. Chlorinated water, no crabs, no seaweed, no seals or otters or jellyfish. No mud between my toes, no salty air, no honest cold water to shock my mind into a state of clarity and leave me feeling exuberant after a good swim. Next available spot: September 28th or 29th. Weeks from now.
Maybe I’ll wait.
I didn’t sign up. I just can’t. I’ll wait until the smoke clears, at least to “Moderate” levels.
Then I’ll pick my own time to swim.
In the meantime, I’ll commit to checking the tides first, before the air quality, because this is a hopeful thing to do. I’ll watch more videos like I did last night of open water swimmers around the world, plowing through distant seas and oceans, pushing themselves, exhausting themselves and best of all finding themselves.
I’ll keep reaching out to my friends, and practice guitar with my two Songbirds, Larry and Jon.
I’ll make meals for my family and lay on my dog, rub his ears. Tell myself and my sons that we will get through this. The skies will clear, the fires will go out.
But I’m scared.
Time to go collect some shells, and say hello to the water. I’ll put my hand in, feel the coolness sink in and pray for rain.
Mary Swims 