Yesterday I swam with silkies, today I swam alone. There were three of us yesterday, on a slow leisurely swim, our heads bobbing above the waves like seals as we looked about and I shared this joyful place with two women friends. One I’ve known over twenty years, the other I met just weeks ago, a neighbor. Whatever paths led us to this moment I am thankful for. Both women had taken a strong interest in experiencing what and how I do what I do out there in all that salty water.
It was a treat, pulling me out of my head into a friendly place with a completely different feel. And the water blessed us with warmth and clarity and laughter.
I loved it and yet was equally thrilled to return to the shore alone today.
The waves were higher, the tide was lower. Stepping into the shallows required a teetering, awkward dance over barnacle-coated rocks. The Olympics and hills in the foreground were astonishingly clear, with layers of blue green edges under another cloudless sky.
In contrast the water again was crowded with tiny brown flecks, churned up by the steady wind and waves, and as I set out to the south through the chop the visibility deteriorated. I hugged the shore and pulled through the cold shallow water, feeling like I was on my first swim. The water clouded more as I headed south, turning a muddy red brown leaving me feeling vulnerable and lost despite the fact that I was mere feet from the shore. And the cold stayed too.
I was humbled again.
At one point I contemplated getting out and making the walk back to the landing. But I didn’t want to leave. I wanted the feel of a good swim and time to calm my racing thoughts.
I stopped and turned north, with the decision to at least swim back to the start clearly planted in my brain.
Within a few strokes after my 180 turn, the water cleared. I started to notice the barnacled rocks below and could make out the shapes of rocks and shells again. As my view cleared I could feel my whole being relax. The sunlight made waves on the rocks and seaweed below me, a promise of good things.
I raised my head slightly forward and was struck by how far forward I could now see. A calm set in as I relaxed into the rhythm and I felt confident I could avoid a lion’s mane jellyfish now with such clear water before me giving me time to maneuver out of its path.
As I neared the north end of the spit I found myself counting my strokes, breathe, one, two, three, breathe, one, two, three and soon my eyes settled on open clam shells, still intact, their brown hinges wide open. I started spotting them, one after another. They appeared like tiny books carelessly left open.
My mother in law once showed me a book someone had made from a clam shell. Pages contained inside the curved white half moons. I always wanted to make one, haven’t yet, but I happened by a perfect specimen, got my footing and tucked it into my swim buoy to bring home. Perhaps this is the one.
At the tip of the spit, the incoming tide carried me swiftly into the bay, and I thought of the salmon returning to spawn. The power of the water was kind but also reminded me how powerless I am in this watery world. I must go where the water takes me.
To my disappointment the bay was shrouded in red brown darkness, another thick algae bloom blocking my view. I again tightly hugged the shore where I could still make out the rocks and river of clam shells, and hopefully steer clear of a jellyfish.
Again I thought better than to risk a run in and I desperately wanted to return to the clearer water, more than stay in the warmer water. Cold seemed a safer choice.
With the tide rushing in, I was forced to put my feet down and walk along the rocky steep spit in shallow water in order to exit the bay. I tried a moment of swimming, and like a salmon, tried swimming against the current. No luck. I marveled thinking about all those salmon. The strength they have to swim upstream for miles and miles. Amazing.
Once clear of the current I lifted my feet and headed south to the landing. The water gifted me again with smaller waves, as the wind had died down and below me the late summer sun danced below.
And then I saw him. A Dungeness crab. By crabbing standards definitely a keeper. I couldn’t resist. I unhooked my buoy and swam down to him, startling him with my sudden arrival. He raised his thick pincers in alarm and I backed away.
I knew he belonged there. And yet. I felt a tinge of shame as I caught myself contemplating plucking him from his home. Not to mention it was illegal—Sunday and Monday only—and I had no means to get him without a good pinch.
My job was to observe. So I did. I clipped my buoy belt back on and floated facedown on the surface, watching this strange lone creature travel sideways through a stand of seaweed, turn and then keep traveling the same direction.
As I watched him sidle away, I smiled with the knowledge that I was once again reminded to just observe.
There is a lot to learn just by watching. Our need, my need, to possess, capture, collect and own is necessary for survival, except when it isn’t.
This was my day, my moment to observe and learn.
And I still couldn’t leave the shell behind.
An open book, like me.
Mary Swims 