Hold fast, for tonight I shall write of the light and the dark and the wind and the waves, each bound to the other, no more or lesser than the other. All needed. All a part of the whole. All teachers.
In near darkness I ended this third swim of December, six days before the shortest day of the year.
I almost missed this swim, almost backed out, almost bagged the whole idea of keeping this up once a week through these powerfully cold, wet and dank months that are the Pacific Northwest winter.
But I reminded myself that there is light on the other side, and I knew that if I could just get myself in I would feel the light. So I pushed through my hesitancy, my dread of the dark and cold, chugged cold coffee, wedged into my selkie suit and with it found my purpose once more. By the time my booties were on, and my husband had carefully zipped me in, reminding me to bring my light, I was practically bouncing with anticipation. I had made it. Adrenaline kicked in and I could hardly wait to get in. I danced to the front door, drawing a smile from my eldest son.
Light and time ran out as I dashed to the water, losing precious minutes hastening back home to fetch my forgotten goggles. On the drive I passed by a young buck snacking mere feet from the edge of the road, his small antlers clean and smooth. He was my unexpected wild gift today.
The goggles weren’t much help after all, as the fading light and cloudy water churned by waves narrowed my view to shadows of clam shells and hovering seaweed.
Swimming is a sort of sensory deprivation on the one hand and sensory enlightenment on the other. Hearing fails, as water fills the ears, eyes struggle to identify murky shapes through fogged up goggles and fuzzy water, while numbing cold dulls the touch, as wetsuits (for those who use them) prevent the kiss of water on skin.
Rough waves jostled me about, pushing me towards shore, and with a quick spot check I just missed running headlong into a beached log jutting out over the high tide. My hands felt heavy from the chill, and I wondered how well they would bend once I finished this swim. Hoping to stave off numbness, I opened and closed them tight each time I paused. The trick seemed to work, and I felt pleased to avoid needing gloves, my hands free to feel all that the water holds.
My view was dim but my glowing buoy floated brightly behind me, tethered snugly to my waist. I was glad to have my lighted beacon, one bright spot in a giant mass of black and indigo waters as I swam north from the landing and into the still waters of Fletcher Bay.
Large clouds of seaweed greeted me as I entered the mouth of the bay, suspended and quiet, like a salty greeting waving me home.
In the bay the towering trees shown black and flat, all color and depth gone with the darkening sky. I paused to catch my breath, check my buoy, make sure the glow was strong, and there it shown bright and inviting just beside me. I instinctively wrapped my arms full around this glowing orange orb, the light of it a comfort equal to the warmth and serenity of a cracking campfire.
I hugged and floated, and spun around to gaze at the layers of darkness. Above me a flock of geese called into the night. It was time to swim home.
Outside of the bay, waves challenged my breaths, challenged my strokes and kept me working hard to get to the finish line.
I paused to check for orcas, a highly unlikely and irrational concern swimming in four feet of water, but fear rose up all the same. The local paper featured a picture of one of these magical creatures just offshore in these waters to the south just the other day.
No dorsal fins appeared, just my own low grade anxiety, a welcome break from the land-based worries we all live under these pandemic days.
So the darkness rolled in on me, fear gripped me briefly as I contemplated orcas, my hands were icy and I bumped my leg on a log as I took my last strokes, but it all worked out just fine.
I stepped ashore a little tired and utterly happy. On the flip side of the sensory deprivation and acute challenging sensations of open water swimming is extreme exhilaration. This is the trade off. Most any cold water swimmer or dipper would wholeheartedly agree I think that the cold sharpens the mind’s focus, forces blood to the core, brightens the spirit and the world expands to the infinite.
To float among the fish, and ponder the fact that there are places beneath the surface alive with life that no human has yet witnessed or discovered, now that’s exhilarating. And once out of the water, never is one more awake, never more in the body.
At home I made mint tea and walked lighter on my feet, grateful for another day in the open water.
And now, I go to bed salty, my souvenir of a swim well spent.
Mary Swims 
🧚♀️💙🐸❄️🐸💙🧚♀️