There is a new baby orca in the Salish Sea.
A happy report on the radio today also noted that several resident pods gathered together for some kind of orca convention recently (none of them were wearing masks!) and local scientists shared more good news—the whales are looking good, well fed. They are finding fish to eat.
I didn’t see any whales today on my swim. But the news lifted my spirits even before reaching the shore. To call it refreshing today would be a vast understatement. Today’s lesson was on making plans….the lesson was….don’t. The second lesson was to mitigate instead, in the event of dirty water, freezing cold water, high waves, strong winds and fatigue.
The third lesson was on runoff.
It started with my usual walk to the head of the bay during high tide, where I prepared myself to expect the water to be fairly murky due to all of the rain we have been having the past couple of days. It wasn’t sort of murky—it was solid poop brown, top to bottom. I held onto a small tree and leaned out to get a better view, hoping to find acceptable water. Nope. I scanned the bay and quickly decided that this was a line I was unwilling to cross, and a trip to Fletcher Landing was in order. Out there I would most certainly find clearer water—and colder water too.
Out of the truck I quickly hit the beach, where decent sized waves were crashing in, pushed by a nice steady southerly wind. Happy to find clear water at my feet, I stepped in up to my waist, as the ice water made its way into my skin. Time for another adjustment—this was going to take serious time to acclimate.
The blessed sun was peaking through the clouds, highlighting white caps on the crests of waves. I placed my focus on the shimmering sunlight bouncing in all directions, weighing the pros and cons of striking South into the biggest chop I’ve yet to experience with no boat to float in. No sails to raise.
I had experienced an icy swim before—not too long ago—but this was different. I felt my resolve begin to cave. A quick splash on both arms, with both hands already feeling chilled, I ended by forcing water onto my face.
It was time to commit or surrender. I did both. I dove under, pulled forward beneath the surface and popped up breathless, my face aching.
This is crazy, I thought. What am I doing here? Why?
I quickly turned my thoughts off, focusing on the world before me.
I looked North, adjusted my plan, decided to attempt one more time, and before I knew it I was carving towards the entrance to the bay. I had committed to this swim and somehow also surrendered to the water. There was no other choice.
At the mouth of the bay I hugged the south side and circled in along the spit, suddenly gleeful as I found myself buoyed by warm water dancing with bright green seaweed like little clouds below the surface.
The seaweed was suspended in the warmer waters and I marveled at how it hovered so perfectly around me.
The calm of the bay was another gift, but fatigue and cold felt near and I did not wish to push my luck.
Midway up the bay I headed across to the far shore and headed back out to the entrance, where the wind was picking up strength.
My last ten minutes south along the spit to my starting point, thrashing my way through a strong wind and decent chop left me winded, and wondering as I found my foot hold in the shallows.
Wonder is what keeps me coming back.
My swimming routes have not extended more than a couple miles out of the bay in either direction, and yet these swims take me to places I never imagined. And are making me pay more attention—to my own feelings and to this fragile and beautiful place I live in.
The brown runoff at the head of the bay today gave me pause. Likely carrying more or less of all manner of human waste, and natural debris, soaps and lawn fertilizer, oil, gas, plastics, horse manure, dog poop, worms, silt, old beer, spit—it’s all there. We might not see it, but it is there.
Unlike the baby orca, I can choose to swim or not. These waters, this Salish Sea, this Pacific Ocean—all of this water. It’s all we’ve got.
And, in fact, all of our lives depend on it.
Everything runs downhill. Everywhere.
Think of the baby orca. Every. Day.
She needs us. And we need her.
Mary Swims 