I found selkies at the shore today.
And sunlight.
Venturing up the road a few miles from home, I arrived to Dock Street, one of the island’s public road ends—a forty-foot wide corridor providing public access to the saltwater I love.
The small bay lies sheltered from southerly winds, and I was delighted to find her calm and sunny, unaffected by the blustery wind. This little bay was made all the more inviting on my maiden swim here by the presence of two other women. One of whom I’ve know for most of my life.
I have grown accustomed to venturing out mostly on my own, and was quite surprised to find swimmers here—glad to find friendly faces and others suited up as I was.
They invited me to join them and with little hesitation I accepted the offer. The sunshine and warm greeting bolstered my courage to plunge into the icy water, and lowered my trepidation with entering this new bay for the first time.
In the distance the white triangles of happy sailboats skimmed along beneath the Olympics, skirted in light grey clouds and capped with fresh snow.
We clambered down over the concrete wall into two feet of high water, landing softly onto soft sand rippled by waves.
The sand was another unexpected surprise, a quiet promise of more good things to come—further calming my nerves.
We bobbed along, two orange buoys and my yellow one, a small pod of neoprene selkies buoyed by the clear water, splashing through a bit of time and space free of conflict and loss and fear, seemingly beyond the reach of the world and the pandemic and all that entails.
My swim buddies didn’t stall for long once submerged and following their lead, after a brief splash in the face I put my head in and pulled forward. To speed my acclimatization I tried six initial strokes without a breath, and pushed all of the air out as I went. The anticipated ice cream headache arrived for a second as I lifted my head out, but this was all I needed.
With a quick glance around, and a brief check in with the others I was ready. And the water took me in.
The bay floor was out of sight, deeper than I had anticipated, a lovely clear green, void of any debris. The open view was like a salve to my eyes, an endless expanse, clearing my mind as sunlight cast an almost perceptible warmth upon the surface.
I paused up the bay to investigate a massive log, encased in barnacles and muscles, secured to the floor below. I was informed that this log would not move, was “the log”, immovable, a staunch guardian to this little bay.
Together we turned around near the log, taking a wide arch out into the dancing waves, reveling in the sunlight that brought the feeling of warmth to us, even though our faces grew chilled and toes grew numb.
As we approached the beach the waves grew, casting about and cementing my decision to accept a shorter swim, and get out while I was feeling good.
Deb checked her watch—twenty-four minutes in the water. A good number, enough time to cool the mind and refresh our spirits.
A rapid change at the truck a few minutes later, and I was ready to snap a photo and head home to drink some cocoa. Julie and Deb graciously allowed me to take their picture, and we parted ways.
My body continued to cool on the drive home, and with a tingling in my toes and a chill swirling around my chest, I was glad I had opted for a shorter swim.
Even in the sunlight, the water left a chill and I was reminded again that the goal is to just get in the water this time of year. And spend a little time floating, cover a little ground if possible, keep my body acclimatized to the winter temperatures.
But most of all I reminded myself that the magic is at the threshold. That liberating moment when I lift my feet, lower my head and give my body to the water. There I feel at home.
Mary Swims 
☔️🎉🌹💞🌹🎉☔️