Long shadows today. And more firsts for me in the Salish Sea.
Delighted to wake to glorious sunshine, I looked forward to picking my entry point for an afternoon swim on what would be my first open water swim in November.
Energized by the light of the day and my desire for a little adventure motivated me to head East, towards Fay Bainbridge Park.
Half way there I remembered Manitou, the old neighborhood of my mother-in-law, and the happy memories of beach time with our little boys came flooding in. Yes, this was where I would swim today. A familiar beach beside waters yet to be explored.
Already suited up, I parked at the little Manitou Beach public lot and set down on the boardwalk to pull on my booties.
As I sat gearing up, a cyclist sat nearby and we chatted about our parallel adventures. She shared that she was not comfortable biking off the island and a little tired of the roads here.
She lost me at “getting tired of the roads”.
I felt a quiet relief that I swim, and huge gratitude that I was afforded the opportunity to learn to swim, another thing on my long list of things I shall not take for granted.
I can honestly say that I never tire of my views or what I see—even swimming the same routes, because they are never the same. And the limitless quality of being in a place void of roads—to swim, for me, is the ultimate freedom.
With a friendly goodbye to each other, I stepped carefully over the large round rocks, softball-sized and mostly void of barnacles. Seattle’s skyline and the peak of Mt. Rainier looked back at me, as familiar as my sister’s face, etched into my mind’s eye. Just stepping into the water, feeling at home and confident, even on this new swim beach, made me smile.
With a few steps in, I found my feet suddenly caressed by the softest sand. Even through booties, I could feel the earth give beneath my feet, like a door opening wide welcoming me in. This was the right choice.
A few splashes in my face and some long slow breaths later and I was under way. Most of my journey was over sandy stretches, highlighted with stands of thin eel grass and sand dollar colonies.
If I am lucky, I will have moments void of thought. When I am nothing but breath and steady motion and light.
Today memories floated in and out as I went along, including to the way back as I recalled that this beach was where I had my first kiss. Eighth grade. The boy lived along this road, for all I know his parents might have watched me swim by today. I can still remember that moment, the crazy anticipation, how monumental that moment seemed at the time. And I recall dashing home and brushing my teeth frantically, not sure if I had enjoyed the experience or not, and telling my best friend and both of us laughing hysterically as we nervously pondered what this new world all meant for us both.
My mind wanders to many places when I swim, my thoughts sometimes drifting lightly like tiny flecks of seaweed or hovering and sinking like leaves or waterlogged sticks. Other times, the best times, are when my heavy thoughts get transformed and change color or shape, like an octopus. There is a quality to the open water that has the power to take my thoughts and wash them, dilute them, lighten them—and me. We all are no more or less than what we believe we are.
At the corner where Falk Road meets Manitou, a cluster of pilings sits like an abandoned forest, a common perch for cormorants, seagulls and the occasional eagle.
When my mother-in-law lived just south of this intersection, we would often gaze out at these pilings, to watch the cormorants dry their wings atop these black perches. At low tide, we would sometimes count the blue herons fishing in the shallows, or watch giddy dogs skip across the sand after flocks of seagulls.
On cloudy days when Mt. Rainier was hidden from view, Linda would often remark, “Well, looks like they took down the mountain today. How dare them!”
My waterlogged mind took me farther back still, to the days when our little boys rocked in the flying machine in the gravel driveway overlooking the bay, a huge moving sculpture that was almost as unique as my dear mother-in-law.
At the two shallow pilings I took a rest, gazing out longingly at the forest of pilings a good 100 yards further out.
Deep water. I wanted to go—what held me back? I took quick stock of whether I was prepared, and decided that other than a stray orca mistaking me for a seal, I had nothing to fear. I swam strongly out to the pilings, spending most of the swim through the beautiful clear deep water trying not to think about orcas.
Arriving winded and equally pleased with my successful side trip, I slowly floated among the pilings to watch a lone eagle tear apart lunch atop the farthest perch. Not surprisingly, he was alone, likely having recently scared off any other birds from his private buffet. He was huge. And then suddenly not alone. A young eagle swooped in to score some free lunch and they both took flight, swirling above the water. I looked away, lost sight of them, and looked back just in time to see the largest eagle heading skyward with what appeared to be a new catch—a seagull firmly lodged in his talons.
I decided this air show was enough excitement for one day, and feeling the coolness soaking in I headed directly in towards shore, close enough to see rocks and shells below me—-a comforting sight indeed.
My return swim went quickly, and after pulling off my selkie suit and flinging it all over a log, I decided to go back in. Just for a moment. I took inspiration from the skin swimmers I’ve been obsessively following through video and story—and without hesitation, dove in with only my red swim suit on.
I am certain that the hour I had just spent in this water helped me brave the cold, but the surprise was my skin. I dove under and swam a few kicks, and felt thousands of prickles in my arms and legs, like I was rolling through frozen nettles.
And, it felt strangely wonderful.
I felt so alive.
And ecstatic with the joy I had found again.
Swimming.
Mary Swims 
✨🌙🎉❤️🎉🌙✨