January 7, 2021

Keep the light on. The orange swim buoy glows bright at one end, a giant floating flashlight, tucked under an arm to exit the water.

It gets dark quickly, and there may be rocks to tumble over, and there will certainly be mud. Plenty of mud.

The mud will stick to you, coat your booties and splatter your legs. The water will collect and feel much colder in your booties once on land, quickly freezing your feet as the blood slowly returns, hastening your trip to the truck to peal off the cold.

The pebbles may conceal sharp shards of shells, maybe glass. Plastic. A rusty nail. You will stumble over a large rock, feeling like a three-legged saltwater swamp monster learning to walk for the first time.

The earth will push back up on you once you reach the shore. The floating dream will be over. Your weight and density will drive the bottom of your feet into the jagged rocks. Your own weight will surprise you, and you will long to return to the icy water. You will miss the softness instantly, and remember why you swim—-even now—in winter. But the view of golden water and golden sky and vast indigo blue edged by soft low grey clouds will silence those thoughts and leave you spellbound and still.

Meanwhile the seagulls will continue their evening cries, soaring over you, having dove close over you minutes prior while you swam through shallow water, smiling as if for the first time with the delight of swimming through perfectly still water. The ease of the swim pouring energy into a weary mind, a sluggish middle aged body.

The lone seal will stay at home in the water, eyeing your clumsy ways in and out of the water and in between. She may not have minded your visit, perhaps it was a slow night for dining on fish, and the still water like glass reflecting purple grey clouds was a sight worth sharing—even with an awkward human.

Perhaps the seal wonders about you—

The human stays quiet and still, and only whispers one soft sound, “hello” —whatever that means. It sounds safe, like water. Swimming close by feels okay.

But where does she think she is going?

What is she swimming away from? Or towards?

Keep the light on once onshore, so you may find the stashed keys and unlock the truck and get dry.

Hurry. Peel the wet suits off, whip the maroon robe on. Quick two pairs of socks. Ah, that’s it. Don’t forget the hat.

Keep the light on, but stay hidden. No one is here.

Return to the water’s edge for one last look, see the fog has rolled in to the North—Salish Sea and sky are now one. The boundary has dissolved.

And don’t forget your seal friend visited you again. You mistook a buoy for her, and then you mistook her for a buoy. She swam easily past you, a dark shadow hidden in the twilight. You wished for night vision and a body of blubber and fins and a map of her world, but she can’t give that to you.

So you will settle for peace on the water at dusk, water smooth as glass, fuzzy vision under a grey winter sky and gratitude beyond measure for the power of nature to heal and protect a heart that breaks open again.

Only a breaking heart can let the light in. So let your heart break and keep the light on. You’ll need it.