Last light.
Racing the inky darkness and my own quickening heart beat, I rose out of the salty cold tonight just as the sky swallowed up the last window of sunlight.
I swim to get away from one part of myself and back to another.
At 5:12pm I stepped ashore at the landing to fight gravity once more, dashing to the car for my phone and our meat thermometer, to capture a photo or two and record the water temperature. I wasn’t sure how the meat thermometer would work, but figured why not. This whole swimming thing started with a big “why not”.
On the way to the truck I dropped my key, then dropped to my knees to pat the pebbles and twigs in near darkness—to feel for said key. After a slightly panicky 15-second search, I found my key. And shook my head at myself for misjudging how quickly the dark did arrive as I realized not finding the key would have meant a cold 1/2 mile walk home in pitch darkness.
Ten more minutes searching and I might still be out there, patting rocks.
All summer long it never occurred to me to find out just how cold the water is, but now that the water is officially warmer than the air, I am more than curious.
All of this measuring and recording and writing and reflecting is expanding my understanding of open water swimming —and giving me something new to study and look forward to every day.
(And no, I don’t swim every day—but I think about swimming every day, in case you are wondering).
I woke this morning and brightened with just the thought of swimming. But then I stepped outside to walk the dog. And then I wasn’t so excited about the idea of a swim as the damp Northwest cold sunk into my bones. The air was a not-nice dank cold. This is not a cold I like.
I returned home after the walk to tackle some things as I contemplated the dark grey day—and the likelihood of whether I would be able to talk myself in to an afternoon swim.
Well, I’m happy to report that I found a recipe.
Here it is: Start with a quick peak at the headlines over a cup of strong coffee, then spend hours cleaning a summer’s worth of dust and dog hair out of every hidden nook and cranny to channel the anxiety and anger and fear and some hope —then get errands done, eat a big giant sandwich with more strong coffee and suit up ASAP while the caffeine surges through your veins and the sandwich settles.
Fuel and chores. Swimming requires fuel, and if I’ve learned anything it’s that eating matters. Especially when it’s really cold—both in and out of the water. And well, chores are a big motivator for me—if I set out to get at least some done, then swimming becomes a sweet reward.
My swim today was a reward and a test. Most of all a gift. I swam 1.3 miles in 51.6 degree water, alone, along a quiet beach with only my thoughts and bubbles, both forming and bursting along my route, slippery as sea otters.
Northward I travelled, watching the light fade as smooth quiet waves padded by me. I could feel my lips tingle slightly as they adjusted to the cold, my strokes fast and even as I churned through the water quickly to warm my body and force the chill to dissipate.
I paused to rest once north of the mouth of Fletcher Bay, and glanced up to a sky full of seagulls soaring in great circles. I scanned the water’s surface, wondering if perhaps they were eyeing their dinner. No fish leapt. No seals appeared.
Then I saw him—an eagle. She floated over me, and the seagulls scattered. Here was the reason for the commotion. And yet, I still took the sea gulls and the eagle as an omen—they were looking out for me. Or maybe I was looking out for them. I think it goes both ways, actually.
On my trip south, the darkness grew, along with my nervousness. Goal: Race the light and get back to shore before dark. To distract and reassure myself I kept close to shore to study the bottom below, and followed shells glowing white, like reflectors on a dark country road guiding my way.
In the quickening darkness I paused and stood upright to find myself face to face with a giant boulder, covered in barnacles. One more stroke and I would have run right into it.
Fortunately, fate or dumb luck was on my side and I just avoided this collision.
Swimming in the near dark proved exciting and perhaps sounds a bit risky or scary to some. For me, the darkness stretched me a bit, challenged me, but also protected me. I felt oddly safe, hidden, held afloat in water that stretches around the whole world.
Makes you stop and think, doesn’t it?
Mary Swims 
🎀💦🏊🏻♀️💞🏊🏻♀️💦🎀