I’ve been learning a few things of late on my first fall in the open water. Much of what I have absorbed has been through trial and error, or gleaned from various sources online.
My favorite online source of late is a Facebook group called “Slow Swimmers”. The origins of this group seem to be in the U.K., with the bulk of posts also coming from folks there. To join the group requires answering a vital question:
“What is your favorite type of cake to enjoy after a swim?“
I feel a bit like a foreign interloper looking at posts of people in far off waters, rivers and lakes and the North Atlantic, floating around in fuzzy hats and talking about cake. I often wish I could join them. But for now I just have their pictures and joyful posts to read. I have learned much from reading their stories, including being reminded that the most important part of enjoying cold water is simply getting in—for any length of time, and getting out and dry quickly to enjoy some cake and a warm beverage afterwards.
I took this last bit of advice with me to Fay Bainbridge Park today, in the form of a steaming thermos of hot chocolate—the good kind, with whole milk. I didn’t have cake, but figured this drink is really a perfect combination of the two—sugary hydration and calories to refuel a cold core.
On the drive to the park, I cranked up the radio and joined Cyndi Lauper on “Time After Time”, feeling a little more ready than usual for a late fall swim on a new beach, armed with my thermos to bring my body temp back to normal post swim.
The afternoon was soft, the sky brushed with all manner of clouds, and the park speckled with all manner of people and dogs getting some fresh air after the hard morning rain.
Having arrived fully suited save my hood and goggles I took the north walkway to the beach. The water way feels much larger on the east side of the island, with ferry boats and freights passing by Seattle and it’s neighbors, the mighty Cascades beyond.
This new swim from an old familiar beach and the host of memories tied to this place distracted me from the chilling entry, and before I knew it I was standing chest deep in large waves from distant boats. The wind was light, the surface of the water smooth but rising and falling like a thousand bellies breathing in and out, up and down.
I did a quick glance South then North, and settled on the Northern route, and taking a quick dive under to break through the final wall of cold I was on my way. The bottom was dark, thick with eel grass, and likely many crabs hidden away out of view.
After a half dozen strokes I took my first breath, then a half dozen more before popping my head out to wait for the brain freeze to subside. Trial and error has taught me that this works pretty well—I pack in a dozen or so strokes with one breath in between, then lift my head out and wait for my brain to settle in and adjust to the cold.
Head down again I swam on past the park boundary and out along the spit, my view of eel grass broken up by the occasional patch of open sand, decorated with small clam shells.
This edge of the park once had the kind of establishment every kid craves—a snack shack. As a child I’d hop my bike with my sister and the neighbor kids and speed past the cemetery, up and over three big hills to reach this candy Mecca. Charleston Chews and Skittles, freedom on a bike, an open beach, no parents. It was alright.
In the open water I paused to take in the view, feeling the bigness of this place, my own smallness and a lifetime of connection and history on this stretch of water, just around the corner from my childhood home.
When I was three my dad came home with a salmon he’d caught right here, as tall as me, with a Christmas photo still floating around to prove it. When my folks still lived in Port Madison I brought my own little boys out in a little aluminum boat to drop crab pots. And for many summers I rode this water with my dad by speed boat to Shilshole, and sailed home with my family past this beach after adventures to the San Juan’s or afternoon trips with friends.
Other memories flooded in too, as I floated in the open water, watching seagulls soar above, staring across the undulating water. The cracked memories, the sad ones, the scary ones, those I let fall from my eyes to mix with more salty water. I set them free to float away. All memories end up somewhere in the end— some sink and some float and some lucky ones fly away.
All was still beneath the surface, my only company a large brown cloud of shimmering fish, not more than two inches long. They appeared and hovered and were gone like a dream, perfectly spaced from one another, suspended in the water in a perfect school. What a marvelous skill they have.
I turned back around at Pt. Monroe, palming one small jellyfish on the way back, it’s body slipping through my hand with the smoothness like a tiny body in motion in a womb—a sensation known only to expectant mothers.
Hot cocoa summoned me back to the start, and after a quick change truck side I took the thermos to the beach. My toes were very happy too, as I had the foresight to pack two pairs of wool socks and finished with a layer of the dog poop bags I keep in the truck for emergencies.
As much as I hate plastic, it sure comes in handy sometimes. My feet were in heaven.
Finding a dry log for a seat, I settled in to warm my belly and watch a sailboat pass by.
Mount Rainier stood to the South in soft shades of blue and purple, and I breathed it all in, thankful for another day in the open water.
Mary Swims 
🌹🎀🎉💕✨🎀🌹