The light got through today. And I swam and swam, and had gentle crossings with people on both sides of my swim.
It started with a little bag of salty almonds, homemade with care and lovingly delivered by my aunt this morning. A brief visit, a quiet chat about dad, her brother, and my mom. And after well wishes to each other on tomorrow’s one of a kind in a century Thanksgiving, we parted ways.
Before she left, my aunt mentioned my last post, wanted me to know that she has been reading them, acknowledged the weight and heft of some of my wandering musings on open water swimming and life.
My life. A drop. A million drops.
I dance the line in telling my story honestly, but cautiously, like a clam keeping some of my deepest thoughts and ponderings and dreams to myself, stored tightly in my shell.
But sometimes the water, the cold water, coaxes my thoughts out, untethers my hidden world, asks to be heard, written down, listened to, even celebrated.
None of us are really that different beneath the barnacles and flotsam, and writing helps me feel connected. Less alone.
And the light, and human connection brings us out of our shells.
After the pies were baked, the stuffing prepped, some dishes done and planning in order for the various deliveries of meals tomorrow to our parents, I stretched into my selkie suit and drove to the landing.
The sky held sunshine, and marvelously happy clouds, and arriving at the beach I also found the light had brought people. Such a stark contrast from the other day when I was here, when the sky and water mirrored my dark mood, on an empty beach, no soul around.
But today, the sun and blue skies poked through, the tide was high, and my stomach was full of feast samples, mainly bread-based—good fuel for a swim. My goal was to cover some ground, swim for awhile, travel and move through this watery landscape as only a wetsuit can allow me this time of year.
At the water’s edge a small boy stood in green boots with his mother, studying the beach. We smiled and chatted as I stepped slowly into the water, happy to see familiar faces and visit with my neighbors, a welcome distraction from the submergence into cold, cold water. We talked food for a bit, and I shared the experience of living with two teenage sons that eat more in a day than I consume in a week it seems.
With a wave I headed south, my neighbor first asking if she should stay and keep watch over me. I thanked her and assured her that I would be okay—I’ve done this a few times. She laughed and said it was just the mother in her, worrying. I appreciated the thought, and utterly get it.
In a time and world where so much is up in the air, uncertain, and stretched, I understood her concern, but I know this place and most of what to expect. Mostly.
My swim was quiet and soothing, a fuzzy green haze obscuring my view. Clam shells and my own breath my only company. I relaxed into the rhythm of my stroke, feeling tension leave my body even as the cold pulled at my hands and face and feet.
I ended my 3/4 mile swim, feeling calm and refreshed, my swim bookended by friendly crossings with people I know, all neighbors.
Thoroughly chilled and ready to dry out, I stepped ashore and saw two other neighbors of mine, whose house I often passed by in summertime on my swims in the bay.
After a quick change at the truck and grabbing my phone to capture the sky and water in all it’s brilliance, I headed back to the beach, stomping my feet in rapid succession to get the blood flowing again.
I glanced up to say hello to yet another couple enjoying the view, and found myself face to face with my science teacher from high school. Their daughter had also been a classmate of mine, and we shared delight in our common ground. A past with overlapping memories on this little island.
Tonight I tucked into my cozy bed, thankful for today’s gift of light. I went to the water to breathe and feel and float, and returned feeling a little bit lighter, more at peace.
And grateful for all of the people I crossed paths with today, friendly faces reflecting light.
Just before bed, I stood in the kitchen, huddled around the half turkey that my husband was carefully carving for tomorrow’s deliveries. My eldest son stood gnawing happily on a crispy wing while my youngest son picked at a tender morsel, and I scanned for the next bit of gristle to pass to our eager mutt.
I will go to sleep tonight giving thanks for all those dear people that I have crossed paths with in this life—my little family chief among them, and for those friends I have not even met yet. They are like the treasures of the Salish Sea—ready to meet me when the time is right.
And I’ll try to remember the light is always there, even in the deepest dark.
If I forget, you can remind me.
Mary Swims 
🥀🌻💫💥🪐💥💫🌻🥀