Why I swim.
This one was my first passenger long ago when I fell deeply in love with swimming—in a pool. And the pool was where I fell deeply in love with A., my first child.
He was tiny, invisible to my eyes, keeping me company lap after lap, floating within floating, just the two of us, water all around. My belly would hang low in the water, my widening hips and sore lower back caressed and soothed by the water around me. I’d talk silently to him, my wee one, as we crossed back and forth, utterly self contained. Safe and bound together by blood and flesh. I was aware even then that this unique and private time, while he grew bigger inside and I grew bigger on the outside would pass by quickly and never be the same again once he was born. At birth he would have the whole world to explore, all of the oceans to swim in, no longer just mine.
I grew bold as I expanded, embraced my roundness and often waltzed to the pool’s edge in a bikini, inspired by a documentary showing bikini-clad Russian women leaping through holes in the ice, weeks before birth, to strengthen both mother and child.
I wanted to be just like them. I wanted to be daring and brave and invincible on my path to motherhood, and beyond.
Living in the Pacific Northwest, an icy plunge into a frozen lake was not really an option. Eighteen years ago when I carried this fellow inside, I wasn’t open water swimming beyond an occasional dip on a hot summer’s day and certainly not thinking about swimming through winter in the Salish Sea.
I was swimming, however, and thought I was preparing for motherhood.
Not until motherhood arrives does one realize there is no preparing. Not really. It’s too big, like the ocean. Vast and complex and ever changing, filled with love so big you can’t possibly name it. And the days bring soft breezes with whispering little waves, and then tidal waves and giant sea swells washing up all manner of flotsam, followed by moments of utter stillness, the water a mirror reflecting back all those things you swore you’d never do as a parent or say. And sometimes the white capped waves and the wind collide and shout at you to figure it out and make it all better and heal the hurt, and have the answer, but you don’t.
The best moments are like today, at the beach, sitting on a bench with my son talking, while the water shimmered with shades of purple as the darkness arrived, the water calm and quiet reflecting a sky washed in fading bubblegum pink and gold and violet while our dog dashed about noisily digging holes and wagging about unaffected and cheerful, delighting both of us.
I asked to take A.’s picture. He allowed.
We talked some more. I listened. We watched two ducks dive down for their evening catch.
I asked him to trust that the answers will come, his path will unfold. In six months he will graduate from high school, a huge threshold. So much awaits him.
I told him I have no answers but know that he will find his way.
He looked out at the water and remarked that he doesn’t know how I stand the cold—how I do it.
I said it’s getting harder, but I love it. I told him I hope to get in at least once a week through the winter—maybe even tomorrow.
I looked out across the water, and a seal appeared, a dark glossy head followed by a slick body.
“Look, A., a seal!” I smiled.
The delight never ends. Nor does the hope for my sons’ futures.
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll take my first December open water swim. There won’t be any ice to break through, but in I will go, bravely and boldly, and wear my love like a suit for all the world to see.
Mary Swims 
💦💙❄️🌙❄️💙💦