October 5, 2020

Rockaway.

Today I ached for an adventure.

Heavy hearted and feeling sluggish, I knew the cold would help but I needed more. I wanted a new view below the surface, the challenge of different terrain, the high excitement of exploring unchartered (by me) waters and the possibility of seeing different sea life.

Full selkie suit and gear packed up, I hopped in the truck unsure of where I would end up for today’s swim.

My younger son asked me to let him know which beach I chose. I drove south past Lynwood, almost turned right along Point White Drive, almost pulled in at Lytle Beach, stopped to gaze at Blakey Harbor but kept on until I reached Rockaway Park. This had been my plan all along, but indecision was running high in me as well as a decent dose of anxiety. I texted my son. Arrived.

The tiny roadside park was empty save for a lone seagull perched on a rock outcropping just offshore.

My plan was working out, except the part where I finished flattening the bumps of my wetsuit, hoisted it up and over my shoulders…and couldn’t get it zipped.

Abandoning my towel and swim buoy at the beach I quickly decided that my options were to either find a safe-looking stranger to help, or abandon the swim. One look East towards Seattle sitting under a hazy October sky with deep blue waves rolling in and I knew going without the wetsuit was out of the question.

I wanted to swim and I needed a helper.

One short drive, two joggers and a few minutes later my problem was solved by a kind middle-aged woman, whom also took a moment to tell me I must watch the octopus documentary. I thanked her and smiled counting up the number of people that have told me as much—maybe it’s finally time to see what all the buzz is about.

My greatest wish as I stepped into the light choppy waves was to swim out south around the rocks and discover an octopus in the shallows for myself. A long shot, but my wish nonetheless.

I clumsily made it out over the fist-sized rocks and clumps of brown seaweed piled high on the beach, eased in and felt the cold water like a kiss on my face, hands and feet. Breathing came easy.

The sun was out, the waves rocked me about and I slowly worked my way around the submerged boulders and craggy mounds from which I imagine this place gets its name. Rockaway.

I peered about into the cold water, eyeing dozens of anemones and waving fingers of brown seaweed hugging the rocks, careful to pick my way through and around this new landscape. I could feel joy sinking in as I settled in to the rapture of floating alone, forced to stay in the present, watch my surroundings and map my course forward—and keep an eye for sea creatures.

An octopus could be around the next bend.

Alas, no octopus was spotted today. But I floated among glistening brown kelp and shaggy strands of green seaweed dressed up with fuzzy brown leaves and small fish too fast to count.

I watched a ferry boat go by and I looked south past the island to see the top corner of Mount Rainier peering back at me.

I palmed a few moon jellies by accident and felt their slippery bodies fill my hands, smooth as silk, then seemingly disappear.

I swam over sunken pilings, and considered the bustling village that once perched in this harbor and before that the First People that fished and traveled these waters, lived by the tides and the seasons.

Nearing my exit, I grew tired from the swim and the mounting afternoon waves forcing me to double up my breathing and turned my face skyward to suck in extra air. I turned on my back to float and rest, then rolled back over to discover a large moon jelly hovering just below me.

I watched it float and gently pulse, as bits of kelp and seaweed strands hovered around it, suspended.

Fragile.

Just being.

Maybe sometimes that’s what we all need to do—Feel our own fragility, float among strangers and remember that we all belong here.

Thank you, Rockaway. I’ll be back.