Persevere and Pivot.
These may be my new favorite words, and most rightly capture the day I had yesterday and where I find myself today.
Yesterday I persevered and won a battle with a rusty bike lock, and succeeded with no help but for the company of my loyal mutt and a can of liquid wrench in emancipating our small outboard motor from our aluminum skiff where it was tethered.
After a soggy walk in pouring rain, I decided since I couldn’t get any wetter I might as well tend to this long overdue task of hauling our little skiff from the water.
I arrived at the wobbly little floating dock to find the vessel half full of rain water. The motor stared back at me, stubbornly locked to the skiff by the rusted bike lock that I should have removed before the rains started…like, say, two months ago.
The bay was a brown grey puddle of swirling cedar leaves and pine needles. Staring wistfully at the water, I accepted that today’s mission would likely not leave time for a swim when all was said and done. But I was still near the water, almost in it and certainly looked as if I’d been swimming already—fully clothed in boots and baseball cap no less.
Forty six bucketfuls or so later I found the boat looking much higher in the water, and my pants much wetter.
That was the easy part.
I pulled the boat close to shore, sprayed the lock with stinky liquid wrench and then lost hope and my mind as the key would not enter the lock let alone turn. Grumbling to myself and my dog we headed to the house to call the rental center to inquire about cable cutters. No luck—I was informed that cable is a beast to cut, and other options involved a power source and rental fees and expertise I do not have.
So, after a quick thank you and goodbye, I grabbed some pliers and a spark of determination and hope to head back to the boat for one last try. Spirited cursing, a bit of grunting and a few blunt jabs and twists of the pliers later, and the key entered and turned.
“Yes!” I exclaimed to the empty bay and my bedraggled mutt.
Much relieved to have won this battle, we popped up to the house for the oars and a life jacket to finish the job and row the boat to Fletcher’s Landing for the haul out.
(The motor, in case you were wondering, stopped working propearly months ago—rowing was the only option.)
The trip was wet and quiet, just the sounds of the oars’ steady rhythm as we carved a zig zag path of bubbles out of the bay. The wind picked up as we reached the entrance, and I stayed in close, hugging the shore to keep an eye out for a salty treasure—a moon snail shell perhaps or a clam shell book.
Fighting the waves and rain we meandered south along the spit, where a hearty crew of builders hammered away in the rain atop the frame of a new house. I had been feeling tough until I saw this crew, in wind and rain all day. My adventure was almost done—they had hours to go.
At the landing I unloaded the engine, tethered the boat to shore and headed the half mile back through the rain to get the truck. My friend Larry arrived to help and beating me there loaded all but the skiff by the time I returned.
Back at the house, mutt and I both needed several towels and a rest.
When evening came, I had bread rising, two hungry boys, and then the power went out. After lighting candles and switching on a few lanterns, I set to building a fire.
There was no kindling to be found, but I was pleased that I had at least cleaned the stove weeks ago in preparation for our first fire.
The moment had arrived. With confidence and some excitement lighting the first fire of fall I began splitting wood, calculating when I’d need to dash off with the rising dough to a working oven—and figure out a dinner plan.
And about then is when I chopped into the tip of my left index finger with the hatchet.
A gasp, a concerned son and a quarter of my finger nail suddenly barely attached, the day and my utterly terrible response to physical trauma sent me reeling.
Fortunately, my son Anders, launched into EMT-mode, bringing me water, Advil, bandages and coaxed me to put my head down while also making time to text my husband and my eldest son for backup.
After ten minutes of extreme wooziness I pulled myself together, and absorbed the blessed reality that my finger was still intact, and only the nail was impacted. I am certain a good part of my shock was that window of time when in slow motion I contemplated the frightening fact that a ever so slight change in the angle and I would have cut off the end of my finger.
When Aidan arrived home shortly after the incident, I convinced both sons that I was not only wholly intact but also feeling okay, and thought take out was in order. Relieved and happy they headed off for this rare treat.
Once returned, the three of us huddled around the living room table in a puddle of lantern light, the fire glowing in the corner, as we devoured our dinner and recounted the day’s events.
I was giddy with relief, and even managed to save the rising bread, with a trip to Larry’s where the lights were still on and the oven warm.
Yesterday was full of pivots and perseverance.
As the dark closed in tonight I strapped on my shoes and a headlamp and went for a short run. It’s nothing like swimming, except that breathing is involved and in the dark reminded me of the unique sensory deprivation found in the open water. And the feeling of being alone—in a good way.
I’m happy to report that my finger is doing okay today, but guitar playing and swimming are out of the question, at least for a little while.
And I’m okay with that. I miss both, and find myself thinking how grateful I am to have found the open water and steel strings.
But I still have the end of my finger, the boat is out of the water and my sons know how to take good care of their mom.
Plus now I have time to work on my hatchet skills until I can swim and play guitar again.
Oh wait. No hatchet.
I’ll let my boys tend to the fire for now while I read more swim stories and listen to others play music.
Mary Swims 
💕🧜♀️☔️❄️☔️🧜♀️💕