Six days since my last December swim.
The water is thick with cold and small flecks of seaweed swirling out with the tide, dancing on invisible currents—all is green and quiet.
I almost retreat, almost stop before I even start, but like now, this time, this unrelenting march through days full of numbers and masks and sadness for the losses, I enter at the high tide like I enter each day, one foot then the other unsure of where I’ll end up but sure that these are steps I must take. We all must walk alone into cold water.
Sunlight glows through a bank of grey clouds and far to the west the Olympic mountains are adorned in blankets of snow, calling me towards beauty and a whisper of hope.
The cold takes me like the day—I waver, feel the chill, wonder what was I, am I thinking, doing, heading towards or away from.
Time starts and stops, as I force my hands under, bare and bracing for the shock that will surely come—pull hands quickly out, splash my face, send hands back in, swirl, then repeat.
Repetition guides me here, gives me structure, a plan for entry into this other world of salt water where I have forged my own rituals.
Some of these sensations I’ve come to expect, but I forget the sharpness just as I wake each day again to the sharpness of now that I had cast away while sleeping. My dreams are heavier now, darker, more confusing, slippery and the water is not the balm it was when the days were warmer. Now I must brace hard to get in and patiently wait for my body to accept this harsh adventure.
The summer’s softness has long gone, the water’s chill dares me to stay—how much can I endure? Where is it safest? On land or in the water?
I dive under, and pull hard, blowing out a steady long stream of bubbles—focus on the bubbles, my legs kicking, torso twisting back and forth while I take my breaths, water and a sliver of land flashing on either side, again and again.
I stop, winded, feel the body surrender, feel my heart beating, peer about hoping to spot an aquatic friend while I slow my breathing with concerted effort.
No seals about, just the memory of them here, in this water, just the other day—a group splashed and barked about feasting on fish while from shore I watched with my dog, mesmerized as one small body leapt completely out of the water.
I continue on, north and into the bay, round the spit, still water and endless space to spin my arms and breathe and float.
Ah yes. That’s it. I belong here. I mentally check in with my toes—they are holding fast in their little booties, and my naked hands stay pink and happy. Fast swimming has dried my mouth, a cave of salt—dry and parched.
A half lap in the still bay, no company, I turn back and make my way to the road end.
Today I want to capture the water, an image, in the water. Fingers stretched, my hand, the limit of my own reach.
I touch both earth and sky. Gratitude for this place, the sanctuary that is water and a moment of peace in this sea. My home.
Mary Swims 
🎉💙❄️🐚❄️💙🎉
Bravo!